


Cup Of Sugar

by lixabiz



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Detective Inspector AU, F/M, Neighbours AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lixabiz/pseuds/lixabiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the D.I. John Smith/Rose AU I wrote last month for my AU Prompt Meme turned into a multichapter-ed fic. The first chapter was previously posted in my prompts compilation work, "The One Where Lixabiz Takes Prompts".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may have read this before. It was a previously posted prompt AU that I have decided to expand into a longer story. Chapter Two is fresh material, so if you want to skip ahead to that, you can.

Mum had always taught her to play nice with the neighbors, because you never knew when you might need to borrow a cup of sugar or request a helping hand moving heavy furniture. Rose decided to heed this very sound advice and take measures to ensure that she made a good first impression on her fellow residents. She was not a great cook, but she had a nice biscuit recipe or two up her sleeve that she had pulled out especially for the occasion.

The very pregnant housewife who had answered the door to 408 said, “Best not be bothering with number 10. Better not to have anything to do with him at all, I daresay.”

“Why not?” Rose asked, turning her head to look at the door to the flat on the other side of hers.

“Odd sort of chap,” the husband said, munching on a biscuit. “Doesn’t come home much, but-”

“Anyway,” said his wife, “Thanks loads for the treat, Rose-was it? So lovely of you.”

Curiosity had always been her weakness, and so she went over to 410, holding her bowl of biscuit tins, and knocked on the door.

There was no answer. She blew out a huffy breath and left the tin on the step.  
  


 

* * *

 

The parcels began arriving two weeks after Rose moved in. They were delivered by private courier and each item was mysteriously addressed to simply ‘Resident’, with no other identification of the intended recipient attached. The same delivery agent knocked on her door week after week and despite Rose’s protests to the contrary, he insisted that they belonged to her because she lived here, didn’t she, and he had a job to do and would she just please sign on the dotted line, _thankyouverymuchMissandhaveaniceday._

When Rose finally managed to get a hold of the Super and explain the situation, he laughed and said, “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

 

* * *

 

Rose rapped her knuckles, firmly, on the door since there was no bell or knocker. She waited a moment, then repeated the action. There was no response. She did it again. Still no response.

“You’re sure someone lives here?”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Butterwick, irritated at being dragged out of his cushy office chair on a quiet Sunday afternoon. “Used to be in yours, but he kept coming and going at all hours of the day and disrupting the other tenants, so we asked him to move into the next flat over. I’ll wager he just hasn’t got around to updating his address with the courier company, we’ll get it sorted, easy.”

He banged on the door with his much bigger fist. They waited a few seconds, and then he shrugged. “Must be out. I’ll contact him back in my office, can’t wait around here all day.”

 

* * *

 

The packages kept coming and the Super was ignoring her calls.

Exasperated beyond endurance, Rose opened one of the boxes. Laundry powder. In bulk. Mystified, she opened another. Loo roll, vast quantities of it.

“What the hell?” she asked, staring at the wall that separated her flat from 410.

The third package contained handcuffs.

“Right. A pervert.” Rose shoved the box away, wishing she could ring her Mum to ask for advice, but knew if she did, she’d just get a lecture on how she oughtn’t have moved out in the first place. “Great.”

 

* * *

 

Heavy, angry jostling from the entrance way woke Rose from a peaceful slumber. She rolled over in bed, startled, and listened as the unmistakeable sound of the lock on her front door being jimmied floated through the flat, loud and intrusive.

Rose held her breath, heart racing. The thudding on the door continued, irratic and impatient. Whoever was on the other side of her door was desperate to get in.

Fighting the urge to cover her head with the sheets like a six year old, Rose got out of bed and grabbed the baseball bat that lay inside her closet. It had once belonged to an ex-boyfriend and her mum had insisted she take it along with her to her new digs. _Thanks, Mum_ , she thought, _now let’s hope my aim is good._

When she reached the hallway, the banging had stopped and there was silence on the other side. Cautiously, bat at the ready, Rose unlocked the door and shoved it open, hard, maybe she’d catch whoever it was unaware and crack their bloody head open-

No one was there.

With a shaky breath, she closed the door, locked it, and ran back to bed.

 

* * *

 

Rose reported the attempted break in to the Super, who regarded her with suspicion - her dislike of the lazy tosser increased ten-fold - but was reassured that he would check the CCTV and find the perpetrator. She doubted this, but nonetheless was relieved when it didn’t happen again - at least not over the course of the week. Still, the bat was kept at the ready, and she had a friend come over and install a deadbolt on the door.

Five more packages came that weekend, though, and enough was enough.

She stacked them against the wall and stared at them.

After much deliberation she thought it best to just be straightforward, located a marker and a piece of scrap paper, and set to work.

 

* * *

 

There was a body outside her door the following Tuesday evening.

It was propped up against the wall, a long, lanky body, covered in wrinkled clothes and dirty converse trainers.

It was not moving.

Rose had just got off her shift at Henrik’s. She was tired, she was hungry, and she was scared stiff. With a shaky hand she retrieved her mobile from her bag, readied it to dial for the police, and approached, heart in her throat.

When she was about a foot away from it - the body - _him_ \- an arm suddenly shot out and clamped around her ankle.

Rose screamed.

She kicked, as hard as she could, heart racing, and the hand let go of her. The previously inert body to came to life and sprang to it’s feet, moving surprisingly fast. The same hand that had grabbed her leg closed over the bottom half of her face, covering her mouth.

“You’re going to wake the entire bloody floor!”

Rose froze.

The voice was low and spoke in a whispered rasp, and it had a distinct Scottish brogue to it. “I got your note. You said seven. It’s almost quarter to midnight now.”

The note of aspersion carried in the voice strangled the cry in her throat, and Rose was so confused she forgot to struggle. Her attacker pulled his hand away, and held up something in his big, calloused hand. In the darkness, it took a moment for Rose to recognize the familiar piece of paper. It was a note that read, in her own handwriting:

_I HAVE YOUR PACKAGES. 7 PM. BRING THE TIN -409._

_Oh, shite_ -

Rose felt the colour drain from her face. This man - this man was her mysterious neighbour, the odd number 10 whom none of the other residents seemed to know anything about, who she’d been warned away from, the very same pervert who _ordered handcuffs and had them delivered to him._

He backed away and said coolly, fluttering the note, “Is this a threat?”

Her stomach sank, eyes growing wide as the implications finally occurred to her. “No! I just- I wanted to give you back your stuff!”

“My stuff?” he repeated, taking a step closer, back towards her.

Rose gasped out, “Your-your packages! They’re being delivered to the wrong flat!”

He was very tall. He towered over her, his face shrouded in the dark corridor.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warned, fumbling for the zip on her bag, hands trembling as she tried to reach the can of pepper spray she kept there. “I-I’m serious. I’ll call the police, if you do-”

But he was faster and had his accoutrements drawn before she could blink. A leather wallet emerged from his jacket pocket, containing a badge that proclaimed him to be- DI John Smith.

_DI John Smith. Detective Inspector._

“Oh,” she said. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yeah.” He shoved his badge back into his trouser pockets, and added, a touch sarcastically, “You’ve already called out the police, I’m afraid.”

“What the hell?”

A copper. A bleedin’ copper, which explained the handcuffs, yeah, but it didn’t explain why he’d been lying in wait by her door, playing dead, scaring the _crap_ out of her-

“Are you going to let me in?” he demanded, before she could lay into him, outraged. “We can’t stand out here all night, Rose Tyler.”

The fact that he knew her name, her _full_ name, startled her so much she found herself complying. The authoritative tone in his voice made her want to obey and rebel at the same time, but it was probably unwise. She did have pepper spray in her bag, and a bat inside the flat, but it was probably unneeded. That badge had looked very real and her instincts told her that he was who he said he was. She wasn’t in danger.

A sense of surrealism pervaded the situation, and Rose found herself having to explain that he’d forgotten to update his address, that the couriers kept insisting on delivering all his packages - she pointed wildly at them, the entire lot, perched in piles in the corner - and he’d been nearly impossible to get a hold of. He stood looking at the packages as Rose went into the kitchen, feeling faint. She busied herself with warming up leftover stew on the stove top, aware of him watching her every step.

“Why have you got a bat?”

“Because someone tried to break into my flat last week!”

Oddly enough, he met this exclamation with a sheepish grimace. “Ah. Well. Actually, I think that might have been me… er… I used to live in this unit. Sometimes I forget I’ve moved. Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

“You forgot,” she echoed.

He looked away, and she realised that he was actually embarrassed.

“I was tired.”

He certainly looked it, now she she could see him clearly. With a proper haircut and a shave, he’d be decent-looking, maybe even handsome. He had nice brown eyes, kind eyes, but they were so red from lack of sleep it was hard to tell.

“Sorry about the mix-up,” he said, shoving a hand into his tangled mass of brown hair. “It’s a bit late to shift them all now, but I’ll come around… when you’re free, of course… and get them out of your way. Sorry for scaring you.”

He turned away, to leave.

There was no reason, absolutely no reason at all, for what she did next. Too much adrenaline, perhaps. Too much relief, that he wasn’t a serial killer or a zombie.

“You hungry?” she blurted out, stopping him mid-step.

He turned around, a look of surprise on his face. Something flickered in his gaze as he regarded the table set for one. He was definitely hungry.

She nodded at the pot on the stove. “Got enough for a second plate, if you want.”

It was only neighbourly, she told herself.

 

* * *

 

He joined her for dinner at least once a week after that. The first time, she heard his footsteps in the hallway, heavy and slow, and opened her door to hand him several packages that had come in the morning. He’d blinked from the sudden light coming from her flat, his face lined with exhaustion and smelling so strongly of coffee she thought he’d been doused with it. The smell of food made his stomach growl, and an overwhelming sense of pity made her open the door wider, seize him by the hand, and drag him inside.

“Why d'you order so much stuff?” she asked, between bites of pasta.

“Time saver,” he replied, devouring his own spaghetti. He always ate like he hadn’t seen a meal in months. She eyed him, skinny all over, and wondered if perhaps that wasn’t the case. “I’m working on a crucial case, been about a year now - we’re finally close to solving it. Don’t have time for shopping.”

“Or eating,” she commented, “Or sleeping?”

He shrugged. “Work comes first.”

She frowned.

“I’m alright,” he said, his mouth curving slightly. “This is really good, by the way.”

“There’s more if you want it.”

“Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

For an officer of the law, he was ridiculously lax in his personal matters. At least he’d got a haircut, a respectable one, though a bit too short for her liking, hair as nice as his ought to be a bit longer, so you could run your fingers through it- not that she wanted to do that.

“Update your address!” she said, for the hundredth time.

“I have!”

“Why’s all this stuff still coming here, then?”

“It’s not my fault Parcelforce are incompetent!”

“I haven’t got any space left in my hallway,” Rose said, annoyed. She set the plate of shepherd’s pie in front of the DI and glowered at him.

“I’ll move them,” he promised, and gave her his patented hungry orphan look before digging in with gusto. It was hard to stay upset at him when he did that so she gave up and sat down to eat herself.

He smiled at her - a big, genuine, satisfied smile - and asked her to pass the pepper. Briefly, unaccountably, she forgot how to breathe.

 

* * *

 

As promised, he shifted the ridiculous pile of parcels from her flat to his own, having to make several trips to carry them all. Except he’d left about ten of them behind.

“You forgot these!” Rose said. “Has anyone mentioned the possibility of a severe online shopping addiction? You could use a ten-step program!”

He frowned.

“Sorry, that’s rude.” She coloured a bit, embarrassed. “Just a joke, didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Oh, no, none taken,” he said vaguely, scratching his ear. “Well. Good night, then.” He turned to leave.

“Oi, what about these?”

“You open them,” he called over his shoulder before disappearing into his flat.

Mystified, Rose went back to her own domicile and dumped the lot on her living room carpet. Hesitantly, she began unwrapping parcels. The contents left her even more confused then before.

Silicone bakeware? A turquoise bracelet. A set of screwdrivers. A silver frame. A boxed set of stationery, pale pink, and a candle that smelled of flowers.

“Oh,” she said aloud, looking at it all, quite robbed of speech. Then she stood and hurried next door and rang his doorbell until he answered.

“Look,” Rose said, looking up at him, “It’s very nice of you and all, but I can’t accept all this. Wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not?”

“It just wouldn’t be!”

“That’s not a valid reason,” he said, cocking a brow slightly. “They’re a thank you. For your troubles.”

She felt embarrassed, suddenly, which was ridiculous. There was no reason to be self-conscious in front of her oddball neighbour.

“It’s… it’s too much,” she finally managed.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. What wouldn’t be too much? I suppose I could return the frame and the jewelry, but are you sure you don’t want the screwdrivers? They’ll come in handy.”

“Return all of it,” said Rose firmly. “If you can’t, I’ll pay you for it.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Rose cut him off.

“If you really want to thank me, then you can take me out to dinner.”

The Detective Inspector gaped at her for a moment. Then he muttered, “Okay. Dinner. Got it.”

“Fancy dress.”

His eyes widened in horror.

“I’m kidding.” Then, because he looked at her funny, she said, “I mean, about the fancy dress. I’m serious about the dinner. No takeaway. I want real food.”

He mumbled something. She blinked, uncertain if she’d heard him correctly.

“Not a great cook. But I could… give it a go, over here.”

“Really?”

“If you want.”

“Yeah.”

“Dinner.”

“Yeah.”

“7. Tomorrow.”

“Really?”

He rubbed his neck. “Already got the potatoes. Figured I ought to… return the favour, at some point.” A flush crept over his face, and once again, Rose found it difficult to breathe. “S'only neighbourly, after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t until after eleven-thirty that Rose heard the sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor outside her flat.

She opened her door and poked her head out. The D.I. looked up from slotting his keys into his lock and fumbled, nearly dropping them in his distraction. He looked exhausted, with deep dark circles under both eyes.

“Hi,” she said, solemnly.

“Hi.”

She stared at him, waiting for the penny to drop. Finally, after several seconds- his face went slack.

“Dinner,” he said, abruptly dropping his head into his hands. “Bloody hell, I’m sorry, I completely-”

“Forgot,” she finished, disappointment rising to the forefront.

He rubbed his face. “Got caught up with work. We just got a new case and it’s a helluva- well. I’m really sorry.”

Rose shrugged. Wasn’t like she’d been waiting around all evening since getting off work at six for a knock on the door. She’d done things around the flat - tidied up a little, cleaned the back of the fridge, sorted her knickers drawer - and watched telly. She’d eaten, too, around nine-ish, the hunger pangs getting too insistent to ignore. Productive, really. Sort of. She’d had an inkling anyway that the plans might’ve been cancelled - _again_ \- from the complete lack of conversation between them all week.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said quickly, looking so guilty and tired she felt her anger melting away, to be replaced with sympathy.

“S'alright, I understand. Can’t stay angry with you, can I? When you’re out on the streets fighting crime, keeping us regular folk safe? Don’t worry about dinner.” He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off with a lifted finger. “Oh- hang on a mo-”

Rose ducked back inside to grab a parcel off the floor and held it out to him. He frowned, took a few steps forwards, and pushed her door open wider. She gave a little squawk and jumped back but it was too late - he’d already got an eyeful of her attire.

“Nice jim-jams,” he said, eyes flicking down over the expanse of leg that her tiny kitty-printed sleep shorts did not cover. At least the top was high necked and loose; still she wished she was wearing a bra.

“I’m about to go to bed!” Rose tugged at the door.

He raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Rose shifted, resisting the urge to slam the door shut.

“Goodnight!” she said forcefully, pushing him into the hallway.

The D.I. grinned, some of his weariness evaporating. Tucking the parcel under his arm, he said, “Alright, alright, I’m going. Goodnight. I’m sorry about dinner. Raincheck?”

 

* * *

 

Despite this promising capitulation, an entire week passed in which Rose did not see so much as the D.I.’s shadow in passing.

Several things became obvious over the course of those days: the D.I. hadn’t been home at all, he was still ordering things online, and his offer of cooking a meal for her was very low on his list of priorities.

He was very busy, after all. He was so busy he didn’t have time to eat or sleep properly, much less for… extra-curricular activities.

In any case, Rose was busy too, juggling two jobs - her day shifts at Henrik’s, as a floor salesgirl, and her weekend shifts at Mum’s salon. Jackie had only recently opened her business - procuring the tiny rental space from a friend whose dry-cleaning venture had gone under after two months from lack of clientele. With two years left on the lease, said friend had been eager to sublet. Rose still wasn’t sure if this was legally… correct, but Jackie’s boyfriend, Howard, seemed confident that it would be absolutely fine.

It was tiring, but having two incomes helped her pay the rent. Jackie fussed and grumbled, but Rose thought her mum was just a bit proud that she’d insisted on independance and also happy to have her flat to herself for Howard’s, ah, visits. She went on about Rose getting training to be a hairdresser so she could work full time at the salon but Rose stubbornly refused - Henrik’s wasn’t great, but at least it was something she’d managed on her own.

Rose had just about given up on the idea of a dinner date when she found a note stuck to her door exactly eight days after their last encounter:

_Parcel from Rococo - not dinner by a long shot, but all yours. Enjoy._

Shuffling through the pile stacked by the door, Rose fished out a flat blue box with posh-looking lettering on the front and carefully opened it. An even posher box slid out, round and tied with red ribbon. The delicate scent of chocolate wafted from it.

Rose stared at the box for quite some time before lifting a hand to untie the ribbon and open the lid.

“You look too good to eat,” she told the perfectly made truffles nested in their little brown wrappers, looking meltingly sweet and delectable. “I’m going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t I?”

She ate five.

 

* * *

 

Henrik’s was unusually quiet for a Friday afternoon. The men’s department was sadly deserted and Rose felt boredom setting in as she folded shirts. She thought dismally of the three hours left on the clock as she adjusted the stacks of polo shirts on a display counter and wondered if she could somehow make time go by faster by sheer force of will.

No such luck. The minutes dragged by, accompanied by a soundtrack of bubblegum nineties pop - S Club 7 had been playing on loop for about an hour now, literally - which made Rose want to tear her hair out.

She was contemplating changing all the mannequins out of their clothes to kill time when a familiar looking body strolled past in her peripheral vision. Her heart skipped a beat - it couldn’t be - it was.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said, creeping up behind him. “How may I help you?”

The D.I. looked up, a ferocious scowl plastered over his face. “No thanks, don’t need help-” His sentence cut off abruptly at the sight of her.

“Blimey, look at that face!” She laughed. “You’d scare the pants off any poor shop girl trying to make a sale!”

The scowl faded and turned into an embarrassed sort of grimace. “Oh. Right. You did mention, didn’t you? You said you work here… er… hullo.”

“Nice to know you’re listening while you stuff your face,” said Rose with a tiny smirk.

“I’m always listening.”

“Uh huh. What’re you doing here?”

“Investigating,” he replied, glancing at the single other customer on the floor, an elderly gentleman perusing Henrik’s wide selection of pants. “Of course.”

Yeah, right. “You’re _shopping_ , aren’t you? Honest-to-God shopping. In a shop- _You!”_ she teased. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Some things cannot be purchased over the internet,” he said with grumpy dignity. “Or so my cousin tells me. The suit I’m to wear to her wedding is one of those things, apparently.”

“Smart woman.”

“Mm.”

“Is this why you buy everything online? Shopping puts you in a right foul mood, does it?”

He straightened his shoulders, looking offended. “I’m not in a foul mood.”

Rose snorted. “Coulda fooled me. Anyhow, you’re in the wrong section for fancy suits.” She gestured at the rows of casual t-shirts flanking him. “You gonna wear a striped polo shirt to your cousin’s wedding, then?”

He glanced from side to side, taking in this nugget of observation as if it were a startling revelation to him. Rose bit her twitching lips and said, “Come on, Inspector, with me-”

“Where are we going?”

“Upstairs.” She tugged him forward by the hand. He gave a token grunt of reluctance, but allowed her to drag him up the escalator without any real protest.

“Thanks, by the way,” she said, looking up at him, both hands on his arm. He wasn’t about to run, but she felt like hanging on and he didn’t seem to mind. “For the chocolate,” she clarified, a bit shyly, when he looked down questioningly.

“Good?” he asked.

“Amazing,” she said truthfully.

“Good. Wasn’t sure you’d accept them. You didn’t want the other stuff.”

“That wasn’t because it wasn’t nice,” Rose explained quickly, “That bracelet was gorgeous, and I could’ve used the screwdrivers, but it wasn’t…”

“What?”

“… Chocolate,” she finished, a bit lamely. It was just different, wasn’t it? The gifts before had felt like he was paying a debt. The chocolates, on the other hand, felt like… something else.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The corner of his mouth lifted, pleased, and a little shiver of something electric twinged in Rose’s belly as they stepped off the escalator.

“Hello,” said the prim brunette behind the counter, coming around quickly to bestow a big, ingratiating smile on the D.I.

“I’m Erica,” she said in a perky tone, introducing herself as his Personal Shopper. Her eyes flicked down his body, taking stock, which made Rose feel oddly protective - she fought the feeling away, he was a grown man and could fend for himself.

He nodded curtly, a brief greeting, before turning to Rose and muttering, “How’s a stranger gonna know what sort of clothes I’d wear? You do the picking, Rose Tyler.”

As if Rose wasn’t practically a stranger, too - all she knew about his sartorial preferences was that he wore trainers and wrinkled shirts to work and he didn’t like to iron. Ever. There was no arguing with that adamant stare, though. She shrugged and said, “I’ll ask the floor manager if that’s okay-”

It was, even if Erica was distinctly put out by this turn of events. She gave Rose a glare and the D.I. a contemptuous glance before flouncing off.

“You get commission from this?” he asked once she was gone.

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “I need shirts and trousers for work, too. Might as well buy the lot today.”

That was awfully kind of him. Rose thought he might be trying to make up for the meals - he’d offered to pay her for the groceries but she’d felt uncomfortable taking money from him for that. It would make their relationship weird, wouldn’t it? Like she was his cook, or something? She didn’t want to think too deeply about why the thought bothered her.

Anyway, there was the chocolate, which she had looked up on the internet after devouring half of them, and as she’d thought - they were the bloody expensive sort.

“Kay,” she said, after asking him for his various sizes, “I’ll be right back!”

From the men’s floor she chose some dark trousers she thought would look good on him, and several nice shirts - he seemed to favour white, so she only snuck in a single pale blue one.

He tried them all on.

“Too short,” he said, tossing a pair of trousers at her, and another, and another- “Too tight, too loose, too ugly.”

“They are not ugly!” Rose said, catching the various items in both arms and piling them on a rack.

“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose,” he replied, leaning back against the dressing room door with his arms crossed. “You just want me to keep taking off my clothes.”

Rose threw the shirt she was holding at his face. He grinned and went back in to change, not bothering to draw the curtain closed. Rose averted her eyes, which was a bit silly, he still had a vest top on -  but there was something a bit too intimate about watching her neighbour slipping into a crisp blue shirt.

She led him over to the section of suits, steering him towards 'slim-cut’ and 'tall’ whenever he wandered too far into what she mentally dubbed ‘cars-salesman’ or ‘dentist-on-antidepressants’, and definitely away from the discount rack. 

“It’s an investment piece,” she said, parroting her floor manager’s usual spiel, “You can’t cheap out on this,” and took the ridiculous velvet smoking jacket out of his hand. He feigned indignance - but the semi-amused glint in his eyes seemed to hint that he was teasing, trying to work her up. She held up several options that might actually work - a navy suit, a black tux, and just for kicks, a pinstriped brown number.

To her surprise, he nodded and took all three back with him to the dressing room. The navy one proved to be a bit too loose on him - blimey he was lean - but the tux looked good. The pinstriped suit, though…

He did up the buttons, smoothing a hand over his torso, and swiveled to face her with one eyebrow raised.

“Not bad,” she said, keeping her tone light and neutral, “Needs something a bit smarter for a wedding, though. Hang on.”

Racing back out, Rose located the display of men’s ties and selected a few she liked, returning to the dressing room in record speed. The D.I. accepted the first one. Made of heavy silk, it slipped through his fingers, but he had quick reflexes and caught it with his other hand. Deftly, he slung it around his flipped-up collar.

Rose was surprised to see the D.I. handle the accessory with such ease - she had never seen him wearing a tie before. His work attire usually consisted of the 'collar-open, jacket-unbuttoned, trousers in need of a lint-roller’ look.

She shifted awkwardly, trying not to stare too hard at his fingers as they expertly tied a knot in the strip of silk. _Don’t think about it_ , she told herself. But she did think about it, she thought about it loud and clear, thought about the book Shareen had left at her flat the week before, the one she’d peeked at and read from cover to cover despite herself - a romance novel about a secretary and her naughty boss, who had a penchant for loosening his ties at the end of the day and using them creatively in the bedroom (or boardroom, as it were).

The D.I. looked at himself in the full length mirror, fiddling with the tie. If you came up close you could see the print on it, which was a repeating pattern of dark roses on a deep blue background. It was her favourite among the lot, and she hoped he’d go for that one. He met her gaze in the mirror, making her breath catch.

Rose bit back the impulse to blurt out ’ _D'you need a date for this wedding?_ ’ and inwardly cringed at the idea. As if she could really ask him that!

“This one, then,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Right?”

“Yeah,” said Rose, cheeks burning with the impossible feeling he’d somehow read her thoughts - as though he, too, knew about the passages from her elicit reading material… the ones that were currently flashing through her mind.

He didn’t _know_ , of course.

He didn’t know, either, that when she went home that night, she dug out the same dratted book from the mess of things dumped in her cheap red storage ottoman. He also didn’t know that she brought it to bed with her later that same night.

He definitely didn’t know that she dreamt about his fingers wrapped around that tie, stroking the floral pattern, obscene, ridiculous dreams-

In the morning, she made a rude face at the truffle wrappers that lay on her bedside table. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. They say chocolate is an aphrodisiac.”

That didn’t stop her from eating five more.


	3. Chapter 3

Rose was juggling several bags of shopping when the D.I. appeared behind her in the hallway. He crouched down and scooped up the renegade satsumas that had rolled out of their plastic container, stuffing them into his jacket pocket.

“Quite a haul you’ve got there,” he said, taking the precarious load she had hefted on one hip from her.

“Ta,” she huffed, partly relieved and partly embarrassed, wondering why he always seemed to catch her at inopportune moments.

He waved off her thanks and held the door open while she bustled inside.

“This is a lot of food,” he said, looking at all of it spread out on the kitchen table.

“Well, I eat a lot.” _And so do you, when you’re around_. She didn’t say that part aloud. He hadn’t been over, recently, not since his shopping expedition at Henrik’s, but Rose thought it was better to be prepared. Just… in case.

“Hmm.” He began to lazily peruse the contents of a bag that hadn’t been emptied, one that held an item she’d picked up while waiting by the checkout line at Tesco’s-

“Oi!” A flush crept onto her cheeks, and she yank it away safely out of his reach. “Don’t be nosy!”

“It’s my job to be nosy,” he replied, as she surreptitiously shoved the contents - a loaf of bread and a Mills and Boon paperback whose cover she was desperate to keep him from seeing - into a cabinet above the sink.

The D.I. watched her, an inscrutable expression on his unshaven face. He rubbed at his scruff. She wondered if it itched, which led to her wondering it it was scratchy, which led to her wondering what it would feel like under the skin of her palm, or under any bit of her skin, really-

“Why are you wearin’ that?” Rose asked abruptly, hoping to distract him from her embarrassing purchase and also to distract _herself_ from the truly dangerous direction her thoughts were heading in.

It was also a genuine question. The D.I. was wearing a woolly black beanie, and had it pulled down over his ears on what was decidedly a very warm Spring day.

He scratched his chin. “What?”

“That hat.”

A brief, uncomfortable look passed over his features. He shrugged. Rose instantly moved towards him, eyes locked on his head. Something was up.

“You never wear hats,” she said, pressing the issue.

“I do.”

“I’ve never seen you wear a hat.”

“You’re seeing it now,” he replied, avoiding her.

“Take it off,” she said.

He looked up, something akin to panic on his face. “Why?”

“Why not? How bad could your bedhead be? I’ve seen it all before, my mum is a hairdresser.”

“I’d rather not.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Just show me.”

“Nothing to show.”

“Yeah right. Bad haircut?” His jaw twitched, which meant she’d guessed accurately. “Right. I’m sure it’s not that bad.” He didn’t say anything, so she added, cajolingly, “Let me see. I promise I won’t laugh.”

It was much worse.

“Okay,” said Rose. “That’s- um. Can I just… ask how this happened? I mean. It looks…”

She trailed off, biting her lower lip.

It looked like he’d decided to hack off his hair on only one side of his head, leaving the top and other side long and unruly.

“… Uneven,” she finished.

His jaw tightened. “I got a call. A lead on my case. It was time-sensitive, so I… left, before my barber could finish.”

“I see.” She paused. “And you’ve… decided to keep it this way, have you?”

“No.” He looked suspiciously at her, as if he thought she was having a laugh at him. To be fair, she was having trouble keeping a straight face, but she knew from the way he was speaking through a clenched jaw that if she laughed he would never speak to her again. “I haven’t had time to go back and get it fixed.”

“Ah.” Rose asked, in a neutral tone, “When did this happen?”

“Wednesday,” said the D.I.

She pressed her lips together. “I see.” It was Friday. “Tell you what,” she said, slowly, “-I’ve got an idea.”

“Have you now?” He looked tense.

She nodded, still keeping a straight face. “Let me make a phone call.”

He arched an eyebrow but said nothing as she did exactly that. Mum picked up on the third ring, sounding exasperated.

“Mum? Are you busy? Sorry! It’s just- I’ve got a friend who needs help with his hair. Yeah. I know. Yeah. Yeah, it’s bad.” She bit her lip, avoiding the D.I.’s sullen gaze. “No, I don’t think it can wait. He’s been… he’s been wearin’ a hat for two days.”

 

* * *

 

“Have you been going to a blind barber? I could weep, I could, the state of your head! You come here, from now on,” said Jackie Tyler, with a final decisive snip. “Every three to four weeks, Sergeant Lop, you need a regular trim. Hair like yours grows fast, I can tell.”

“Yes Ma'am.”

She removed the plastic sheet from around his neck and stepped back, allowing Rose to move in behind him. “Put some gel in before it dries, sweetheart, or it’ll go all puffy.”

“Yes Mum,” Rose said dutifully, grinning a little. She set to work as the D.I. shifted in his reclining seat, trying to look at himself in the mirror.

He had soft, springy hair, thick and a lovely chestnut colour. She relished this stroke of good fortune and buried her fingers into it. Mum had done a fabulous job - after she’d stopped laughing, that was - and had given the D.I. a nice close trim, leaving enough length at the top for Rose to play with.

_(‘Not too short, Mum, he won’t like that, and don’t shave the sides if you can help it-’ 'I know what I’m doing, love, stop fussing!’)_

To her pleasure, he also had very sleek, perfectly shaped sideburns now. The effect was startling, making him look younger and fresher. Frequent upkeep would be required, he’d have to either do it himself or come back to have her mum do it for him, regularly. (A somewhat sly tactical move on Jackie’s part, to ensure repeat business.)

“I haven’t been trained to cut hair properly,” Rose told him as she worked a decent amount of gel into his fringe, coaxing it upwards and tousling it slightly. “But I’m good at styling hair. You’ll be a gorgeous boy once I’m done with you!”

He seemed conflicted in his response - a half-amused, half-sarcastic. “Ta.”

“As long as you’re a good tipper,” she quipped, running her fingers through the sides, enjoying the almost velvety nap of closely cropped hair along his nape.

“If you keep doing that,” he said, closing his eyes, “I can be.”

She blushed, hard, and was grateful that he couldn’t see. For several minutes they went on in peaceful silence, Rose giving him a head massage for all intents and purposes, the hair gel left out to collect dust.

“There,” she said at last, when it became obvious that she was not putting any more product into his hair and was simply feeling up his cranium for her own perverted pleasure. “You’re perfect!”

The praise came out of her mouth before she really thought about it. The D.I.’s mouth lifted, a cocky smile forming there, and she thought, _oh good grief,_ but he only thanked her once again and got out of the chair.

“Looks good,” he said, regarding himself in the mirror. He seemed almost surprised, hands stroking his newly acquired sideburns. “Never had any before.”

“Next time we’ll try experimenting with back-combing,” said Rose, brushing away a clump of hair that was stuck to his shoulder.

“I don’t know what that means,” he said, eyes flicking to the spot she’d just touched. There was something almost flirtatious in the timbre of his voice as he finished, “-but it sounds both terrifying and exciting at the same time.”

Her stomach did a little flip, but she said without losing a beat, “Oh, it is. You’ll love it.”

“The only problem is, how am I going to break it to Antonio that I’ve replaced him?”

“Antonio?”

“My blind barber, as your mother so eloquently put it,” the D.I. explained, a boyish twinkle in his eye. “He’s going to be heartbroken.”

“That’s between you and him,” said Rose primly. “I’m an innocent outsider.”

“No, you led me here. You’re implicated in this.” He grinned, and this time she was sure it was  flirtatious. “Reckon he’ll get the message if I don’t show my face again?”

“That’s a bit rough!” said Rose. “Is that how you break up with people? Just stop showin’ up?”

“No, I usually do it over voicemail.”

She rolled her eyes, and opened her mouth to say something teasing back, but she was interrupted.

“Shop’s closing in five,” Mum’s voice called out, over the sound of her washing her hands at the sink in the back room. “You comin’ home for dinner, sweetheart? I’ve got chops marinating!”

“No thanks,” Rose shouted in reply. She grabbed the D.I.’s jacket and hustled him out of the shop. “That’s our cue to leave.”

Outside, the sky was darkening, and there was a breeze that proved to be chilly, despite the very warm temperatures of the earlier day. Rose hugged herself, arms rubbing at the goose-flesh that prickled over her arms, and looked at the D.I. as he checked the time on his wristwatch, a hopeful idea emerging.

“We could go get chips,” she said, as casually as she could manage, “If you want.”

The D.I.’s face did a funny conflicted thing, a half-grimace, half-smile, almost as if his features didn’t know how to react to her proposition. Ruefully, he shook his head. “Sorry. I’ll have to pass. Have to be back at the station in twenty.”

“S'alright.” Rose shrugged, hiding her disappointment very carefully. “You’re busy with a case.”

“Always am,” he replied. She might’ve imagined the undertone of discontent in his voice, but decided it was probably just weariness. “Sorry again.”

She waved his apologies off and they parted ways at the intersection.

“Enjoy the chips,” he called after her.

 

* * *

 

It was, in the end, chips that tipped the scales.

Sort of.

Mickey, her oldest pal, came 'round to fix her computer the following week, but spent the majority of the hour he’d been in her flat complaining bitterly about some doctor whose car he was repairing at the auto shop where he worked. It was stuff like 'she doesn’t listen to a word I say’ or 'how can someone so smart be so dumb about cars’ until Rose tuned him out, wishing she hadn’t bothered to ask him for help if he wasn’t going to shut up and actually fix the bloody thing.

He did eventually get around to doing whatever he did that allowed her to get back online, and requested to be fed as a reward. Rose was willing to grant this wish, but didn’t feel like cooking, so they headed out to procure food of Mickey’s choosing. They returned to her flat with three large helpings of chips (two for Rose) and a side order of fish (for Mickey) as another round of ranting began.

“If you like her so much,” Rose said in exasperation as they got off the lift, “Just ask her out already!”

The chip in Mickey’s mouth fell out, half chewed. He spluttered, “That’s not the point at all!”

“Sounds like the point,” she retorted, protectively holding the chips out of his reach, he wasn’t getting any more if he was just gonna waste them like that- “Sounds like you’ve got a thing for this doctor. Can’t stop talking 'bout her, can you!”

“She’s a medical student,” Mickey muttered. “Not fully qualified yet. Still doing her residency-”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you’re not obsessed with her or anythin’, you just know all this stuff 'bout her.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up!”

He reached over and grabbed a chip and threw it at her. Rose gasped and glared, rearing back. “Don’t you dare!”

“What are you going to do about it?” Mickey taunted, grabbing another chip and lobbing it at her cheek. It bounced off, leaving an oily smear. “Haha, grease-face!”

“Oi! You jerk!”

Rose elbowed him in the stomach, none-too-gently, and he doubling over, wheezing. She got ready to make a run for her front door, but a gleam had lit up in Mickey’s eyes and he blocked her way; immediately retaliating by throwing his arms around her and squeezing until she laughed and screamed, “Get off! Mickey! I’m gonna drop the chips!”

“Beg for mercy, Tyler!”

“No way!”

He hugged her harder, and lifted her right off her feet the way he used to do when they were kids and horsing around on the estate. The nostalgia was completed with the same silly roar coming from his mouth that used to make Rose giggle - it had the same effect now, all these years later. She was out of breath from laughter and having the air squeezed right out of her lungs.

They were being so noisy she didn’t hear the ding of the lift, or the sound of the doors opening, or the footsteps that emerged from it… until far too late.

Someone cleared their throat behind them. Mickey stopped making silly noises and set Rose down, grinning like a beloved idiot at her, expecting to see the same.

But the smile had fallen off Rose’s face, much to his surprise. She’d turned her head and spotted the person who had just vacated the lift. The person who was standing less than two feet away, a look of unconcealed irritation lacing his features.

“Excuse me,” said the D.I., his voice devoid of any emotion, “You’re blocking the way.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Hi!” Rose chirped, far too brightly. She bounded towards the D.I, dropping a trail of chips in her haste to put distance between herself and Mickey.

The D.I. gave a curt nod of greeting, his features stiff. There was silence in the hallway as they regarded one another, a triangle of taciturn detachment, forced cheer, and blithe unawareness.

“Hey,” said Mickey.

Rose awkwardly introduced the two men, making it a point to describe Mickey as an _old friend_. They shook hands, though without much warmth. Rose offered a portion of chips to the D.I., which was politely but firmly declined. With a sinking heart, she watched as he disappeared into his flat.

“Friendly bloke, your neighbor,” Mickey sneered. “Thought he was going to bite my head off for standing in his way!”

Rose, still staring at the D.I.’s closed door, opened her mouth to say something in his defense, but closed it again. What was the point?

“You coming to Keish’s thing, right?” Mickey asked cluelessly, already bored of the topic at hand. “She’s been calling all the old crew up, wants us to all come out for her birthday.”

“Yeah,” Rose replied without enthusiasm, and sent Mickey off with his share of chips shortly after. Restlessly, she tried to complete the errands she’d set out for the day but had trouble concentrating on even the most basic of tasks, and ultimately gave up, settling down on her old sofa to watch some mind-numbing telly.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, she was still in a bad mood and trying to distract herself by baking biscuits to little avail. Rose sneezed, swiping at her nose with a flour-y hand. Nothing was going right. Fifteen minutes of stirring and the bloody dough was still lumpy.

Frustratedly, she renewed her efforts of beating at the mixture with a wooden spoon. One vicious stir sent the chunk of dough flying out of the bowl straight into the air, a good portion of it landing on the floor. Rose threw the spoon down, biting back a scream.

She’d have to start over, again, and she’d _just_ run out of sugar.

Her feet took her next door without permission and before she knew it, she’d knocked on his door, fidgeting and wiping her hands on her jeans.

When it opened - she briefly, anxiously thought it might not - the D.I. stared blearily down at her, in a t-shirt and boxers. He’d clearly been catching up on his sleep and she had just woken him. He’d be in a bad mood, surely.

“I’m baking,” she said, regretting her impulsiveness and feeling horribly tongue-tied as a result. “Need a bit of sugar. Can you spare some?”

He nodded, and let her inside, which was more than she expected. The fact that he had sugar at all…

Rose had never been in the D.I.’s flat before. Curiosity warred with her nervousness and won. Her eyes darted around as she followed him, taking in every bit of the surroundings. It was far neater than she’d expected; the furnishings simple, almost sparse, and there was practically no element of ‘decor’ to speak of. Cardboard boxes, the only apparent evidence of his addiction to online shopping, sat folded in a corner of the living room, adjacent to the kitchen door.

There she laid eyes on the first mess to be found in the entire place - the dining table was littered with folders and papers - notes on his cases, she assumed. Those he quickly shuffled into rough piles and tucked under his arm.

He hadn’t said a word yet, and Rose wasn’t sure how to break the ice.

“About the other day,” she began, haltingly.

He turned, eyes fixing onto her face in an unsettling way. When he spoke, his voice was scratchy, still fogged with sleep. “Beg your pardon?”

“Mickey,” repeated Rose, licking her suddenly parched lips. At his blank look she added nervously, “Y'know. In the hall-” The crease in his brow deepened, making Rose wish for a hole in the ground to sink into. “He was just here to fix my computer for me. Silly thing’s always broken.”

There was a pause. Then, “He comes around a lot, does he? To fix your computer?”

“Well-” Truthfully, Mickey had only been twice now, the first time back when she’d just moved in. “Actually-”

“He hasn’t got a key to your place, has he?” the D.I. interrupted.

“No,” she said, taken aback. “Why would he?”

“Mm.”

“What?”

“Just double-checking. Security in this building’s a bit shambolic.”

“Is it?”

“You keep a bat in your bedroom closet,” was his response.

OK. That… well, she couldn’t argue with that.

“I’m going to change into proper clothes,” the D.I. said abruptly, seeming to realise he’d answered the door in his boxers. “Help yourself to the sugar. It’s in the top drawer next to the sink.”

The D.I.’s kitchen was not nearly as disorganized as she would have imagined. Like the rest of the flat, it was… spartan. There was no sugar to be found in any of the drawers. She slowly checked every possible storage space, reassuring herself that he’d _told_ her to help herself; noting the vast quantities of paper towelling that lay nestled under the plumbing and the fact that as far as she could tell, he literally owned one plate and two forks.

Rose opened the fridge. There was a lonely satsuma in the crisper, one she’d given him, and a packet of sandwich meat past it’s expiry date. Nothing else.

“No wonder you’re always starving,” she muttered to herself, shutting the fridge door.

Eventually she located the sugar. It was inside a cabinet above the sink; a brand new, untouched bag, sitting far too high on the topmost shelf for Rose to reach. Standing on tiptoe, she stretched as far as she could, even while knowing it was a futile endeavour - she was far too short.

“Here,” the D.I. said, suddenly behind her, torso brushing against her shoulder blade. A much longer arm reached past her fingertips and plucked the bag of sugar off the top cabinet shelf. He laid it down with a small thump. Instead of moving away, however, he remained in the same position, lowering his arm and setting a palm on either side of her on the countertop.

“Sorry,” he said to the top of her head. “I forgot I’d put it up there.” There was a puff of air against her cheek. It smelled vaguely minty. He’d brushed his teeth.

“S'okay.”

Rose turned, thinking he would step away, but he didn’t. His chin tipped as he looked down at her, his jaw smooth. He’d shaved, too, while she’d perused the contents of his kitchen.

“You’ve got flour on your… there.” A hand brushed over her nose, wiping the smudge away. 

Rose swallowed, looking up under her eyelashes at him. “Ta.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. It definitely did. She blinked.

And just like that, the D.I. backed off, as suddenly as he’d approached.

“You can take the whole bag,” he said, already halfway across the kitchen. “As long as I get some of whatever you’re baking.”

“OK.”

In the awkward silence that followed, Rose picked up the bag of sugar from the counter and held it her stomach. Her insides had gone all funny, all tingly and electric. Pressing the bag to her belly only vaguely relieved the tension that gathered there, and lower.

The D.I. muttered something about having to leave, so Rose went back to her flat, wondering what the hell had just happened.

 

* * *

 

The biscuits in their little tin, set aside on her living room table, went stale long before Rose had a chance to give them to their rightful owner.

She binned them and considered making a new batch, but decided that there was an all-too-depressingly good chance of those going stale too before she ever laid eyes on D.I. John Smith again.

Mum used to say something, about blokes like him: a gust of wind could blow hot or cold, and you never knew when it was coming, or from what direction it’d flip up your skirt and leave you scorned.

 

* * *

 

Keisha’s birthday bash turned out to be far more eventful than Rose had anticipated. Following tradition, the party was being held at an upscale nightclub in a posh part of London that Rose did not often frequent. Keisha was one of Rose’s old clubbing crew, a relic of her school days, and although they still occasionally kept in touch, Rose could not quite say what her chum was up to these days, work-wise.

All she’d learned so far was that Keisha’s new boyfriend was very well-connected and had part-ownership in tonight’s posh setting. Mickey whispered to Rose that there were a lot of rumours swirling about the place, including some rather not-nice ones about Keish’s lad and his possible involvement with the mafia. Rose didn’t know if this was true or not, but decided, _who cares?_

She’d not been out in a long time. It was nice, a change of pace, to party like this. There was something nostalgic about it, a flashback to a past life - a bit of a wilder time in _The History and Making of Rose Tyler_ \- and reopening that chapter for one night’s visit was fun, refreshing even.

She’d been feeling a bit down lately. Maybe a party was just what she needed to pull her out of that funk.

The dress she was wearing was a few years old, but it was tight and short and did what it was supposed to: show off her legs and bum, which were respectively numbers two and one on her personal list of best physical attributes.

Rose was dancing with a group of female friends she hadn’t seen in ages and starting to enjoy herself, when a bloke who’d had a few too many drinks way too early in the evening started getting handsy. Rose gritted her teeth and asked him to back off in more polite language than she would’ve used in the past. She wasn’t interested, but he was the sort who used the excuse of being too drunk to understand the word 'no’, and kept on groping her.

Every single fight instinct inside Rose clamoured _get off me!_ Her skin crawled, as if there were a colony of ants living there. Anger and embarrassment merged with the foul mood she’d been nursing for days,  converging at last on the idiot who was grinding himself against her.

“Take your hand away, mate, or I’ll take it away for you,” she snapped.

He laughed, his filthy breath hot on the back of her neck, making her patience snap. She tried to wrench her arm away, but he’d wrapped his hand around it, his other palm on her hip, pulling her back against him.

What was it she’d learned at the community center about vulnerable points in the body? Nose, throat, solar plexus? She’d have to turn her whole body to be able to smash the heel of her hand into his ugly snoz, and his grip on her arm was too tight to allow for much movement. Same problem with his throat. Her elbow, however, was in the right position, and if she angled it up-

“Oof!” She rammed her pointy elbow, hard, into the soft spot just below his breastbone, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled, grip loosening, and Rose used the momentum to shove him back, sending him tripping over another clubber and crashing to the floor. Someone cheered, a few others laughed.

“Nice one,” said a familiar voice to her right. “Right in the gut.”

Rose’s head snapped up, adrenaline still pumping through her system. Almost giddily, she said, “Self-defence class.”

The D.I. nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets and strolling over. The asshole on the floor surged to his feet, recovered from the shock. Before he could so much as breathe his alcoholic breath in Rose’s direction the D.I. stepped in between them, his police badge extended.

“Problem, mate?”

“No,” the man spat, clearly furious, but not so much so that it made him stupid enough to start a fight with a cop in a nightclub. He stomped off.

Keisha shoved through a crowd of drunken clubbers, concern on her pretty face. “Rose! You alright?”

“I’m fine,” said Rose, as the D.I. casually pocketed his badge. “I can handle myself.”

“Still got it,” said Keish, grinning and giving Rose a hug. She noticed the D.I. watching them, and said, “Friend of yours, Rose?”

Rose nodded. Keisha smiled and told the D.I. to give the bartender her name for a drink on the house. The D.I. raised his eyebrows and thanked her. She she waved it off, playing her generous hostess part to perfection before disappearing into the crowd again, leaving Rose and her neighbour standing in the middle of the dance floor, staring each other down.

They’d gone days, sometimes a whole week without seeing one another since the start of their friendship, but never quite so long before. To bump into him, here, of all places - it was absurd. Her mood didn’t know which way to swing, up or down, glad or gloomy, so it settled for sideways and cautiously optimistic.

“Gonna get that free drink, then?” came out of her mouth, before she’d even formed a coherent plan as to what to say. 

(Part of her was relieved it hadn’t come out as something like, _What on earth are you doing in a nightclub?_ or _Why the hell have you been avoiding me_ or perhaps _What the hell happened in your kitchen the last time we saw each other and were you going to kiss me or was I imagining things?_ )

She felt his eyes on her back the entire way to the bar and wished she’d let him lead.

There were miraculously two empty stools at the bar, vacated by a giggly twosome caught up in each other, heading towards the men’s loo to… well, suffice to say Rose didn’t think whatever they were planning involved using the facilities for their intended purpose.

She slid into the right seat, crossing her legs and feeling self-conscious. Her skirt rode up slightly, so she tugged it down, quickly glancing at the D.I. to see if he’d noticed. 

He wasn’t even looking at her. 

Instead, he was flagging down the bartender, casually saying, “Your friend… Rickey, was it? Saw him, over there. Seemed busy, so I didn’t say hi.”

Rose followed the direction of his gaze, her eyes falling on the figure of Mickey standing at the other end of the bar and leaning against the counter, his head bent towards a smaller, seated figure - his date, the lovely Martha Jones, who he had finally admitted to being head over heels for and had finally gathered enough courage to ask out. They were kissing. Very much so. Lucky Mickey.

The D.I. arched a brow. “I can look the other way if you want to go over there and punch him, too.”

Rose nearly snorted her drink. “I told you, we’re just mates,” she said evenly. “He can snog anyone he likes, it’s none of my business.”

“My mistake. You seemed pretty close.”

They’d had this conversation before, and like the previous time, there was something in his body language and offhanded interest that seemed suspiciously like… jealousy. “He just came 'round to fix my computer cos it keeps acting up. He’s good with computers and stuff like that. Good with cars. He’s a mechanic.”

“I know,” the D.I. said. “He checked out.”

She squinted at him, confused. “What d'you mean, 'checked out’?”

“He’s clean. No criminal record.” He frowned at her expression. “What?”

For a second, she thought she must have heard wrong. “You… you ran a background check on Mickey?”

“Of course.”

“Why would you do that?”

“He was lingering outside my home, behaving suspiciously.”

“He was just visiting me!”

The D.I. flicked his shoulder, a nonchalant expression on his face.

“You haven’t run a background check on _me_ … have you?” demanded Rose, the thought occurring suddenly to her.

“Yes.”

Her mouth fell open.

“You left a ransom note on my door,” he reminded her.

“It wasn’t a ransom note!”

“Obviously I didn’t know that at the time. Had to make sure you were harmless.”

Partly shocked at his complete mistrust of everyone around him, and partly incensed by the fact that he’d deemed her 'harmless’, like she was some sort of fragile lamb, Rose scowled. She racked her brains for a suitable retort but couldn’t think of one.

The D.I. looked around, something he seemed to be doing every couple of minutes, as if surveying the surroundings for signs of trouble or law-breaking. Again she wondered what he was doing here in a nightclub and opened her mouth to ask him, but he turned his head back to face her and spoke first.

“So you didn’t come with Rickey tonight, then?” he asked, rounding back to the topic of Mickey once more.

“Shared a taxi getting here,” Rose replied, accepting a fruity mixer from the cute bartender. Her mood lifted as she took the first sip. The heady combination of alcohol and sugar went straight to her head.

The D.I. received a glass, too, of something she couldn’t identify. “Dare I ask what the occasion is?”

“Keisha’s twenty-first birthday. It’s on her dime - well, technically, her boyfriend’s, I s'pose - that you’re enjoying that drink of yours.” She peered at it, wondering what he’d ordered. Taking a sip of her own drink, she added wistfully, “We went to school together, Keish an’ me. Feels like ages now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t have been all that long ago.”

“I haven’t gone clubbin’ in _years_.”

The D.I. smirked.

“What?”

“Nothing. You say that like you’re in retirement age. When, actually,” he paused, lifting his glass to his lips, a flicker of something pensive in his eyes, “I keep forgetting just how young you are.”

She said, oddly defensive, though whether it was on her own behalf or his, she didn’t quite know- “Like you’re so old!”

“Older than you,” he said, rubbing one eye.

“I’m twenty-one!”

“And I’m twenty-nine.”

“Going on sixty.”

“Oi.”

“That’s only eight years between us,” Rose pointed out, easily, and to prove she could do maths, she added, “And it’s my birthday in two months so it’ll be seven years, then.” She looked at him questioningly.

“December,” he confirmed.

She’d figure out the exact date later, Rose thought to herself, and hummed in the back of her throat, feeling oddly content. The music thumped rhythmically, setting a pleasant sort of pulsing buzz in her bones, making her itch to move.

What could it hurt? She peeked sidelong at him, and asked lightly, “Wanna… dance?”

There wasn’t much chance of him agreeing, Rose knew, but still there was a brief pause, a second between bass beats, in which he looked at her over the rim of his glass and she thought he would say yes.

“Pass.”

Oh, well. She’d known it was a long shot, anyway.

“In case it wasn’t obvious,” he continued, “I’m here for work, not leisure.”

She looked at the glass in his hand.

“Club soda,” he said, tapping his finger.

“Right. You’re too old for this sort of thing. Got it.” Smiling brightly to cover the disappointment gathering in the pit of her stomach, Rose popped off her stool and stood, polishing off her own drink. “Better get back to the girls.”

“Don’t hit anyone,” warned the D.I. “I’m not bailing you out.”

“If they don’t hit on me,” Rose retorted saucily, “then I won’t return the favour.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey poked his head out the cab window when he realised Rose wasn’t coming with them. Behind him, Martha was holding down a struggling, woebegone Keisha, trying to keep her from bolting through the other passenger door. The birthday girl had indulged a bit too much after it became apparent her talked-up big-shot boyfriend wasn’t planning on showing his face at all. Two phone calls and a destroyed mobile later, she alternated between flailing wildly and sobbing hysterically - even the taxi driver looked wary.

“Go on,” Rose said, a bit relieved there wasn’t room for a fourth person anyway. “I’ll catch the next one.”

With a sigh, she stood on the curb, rocking back on her heels. The club scene was still going fiercely but Keisha’s party had fallen apart quite spectacularly and her friends had decided to take her home before she caused real damage.

So much for tonight’s party as a stress-reliever, Rose thought mulishly. She hadn’t seen the D.I. since leaving him at the bar, either - maybe he’d left, having achieved whatever it was he’d come for.

Then, as if her thoughts had conjured him, he appeared suddenly, strolling from the exit towards her. 

He lifted an eyebrow. “Birthday girl didn’t seem too happy back there.”

“Tradition,” replied Rose. “All her birthdays end in tears. Ever since play school.”

She wondered if he was leaving, too. Maybe they could share a taxi home - split the fare. It was only logical, a money-saver. This seemed to be the case, especially when a vacant taxi turned the corner and the D.I. stepped off the curb to signal for it to stop.  He stuck his head into the driver’s seat window. A few seconds later he withdrew and opened the passenger door, gesturing with a nod for Rose to get in first.

Rose stepped carefully into the cab - she’d sprained an ankle once with the same ingredients at play: heels, alcohol, and a sidewalk curb - brushing past the D.I. as he held the door open. A faint whiff of floral perfume wafted from him, tickling her nostrils. It didn’t mean anything, she knew - he’d been inside a crowded club full of women all night - but it still made her feel a funny twinge in the pit of her stomach.

He shut the car door once she settled in. “Goodnight.”

“You’re not getting in?” asked Rose, surprised.

He shook his head, and stepped back onto the sidewalk. Rose watched him through the rear windshield as the taxi pulled away from the curb. The D.I. gave a little wave with one hand before heading back into the club.


	5. Chapter 5

When Rose came into the shop the following morning, her mum said, “Your bloke was in a couple of days ago, for a trim. Ghastly beard on him -  doesn’t he ever shave?”

Rose blinked. “Oh. Was he?”

“Yes, had a wedding to go to, he said. Today, I think.” She nodded approvingly. “I was right about his hair type, you know. Grows wickedly fast. Some men are just like that-”

“-virile?” said cousin Mo, cheekily, winking at Rose. She was fourteen and working at the salon during her summer holidays.

“Suppose so,” said Jackie. “It’s only been three and a half weeks since he was here and already I had to trim about an inch off his sides! And the beard! Got rid of it for him, I did!”

“Aunt Jackie doesn’t like beards,” Mo said helpfully. “She says it makes them look like lumberjacks.”

Rose laughed, but it was hollow. The D.I. had been and she hadn’t known. He hadn’t even mentioned it the night before - he’d been too busy telling her about his habit of running background checks on everyone he met. 

“Why are you working, anyway,” asked Mo. “He should’ve taken you with him! You could’ve taken the day off, couldn’t she, Aunt Jackie?”

“We’re not- he’s not my boyfriend,” Rose said, cheeks heating up.

“Yet?”

_“Mum.”_

“Oh please, you were flirting up a storm last time, made me blush just listening to the two of you. What’s the matter? He’s shy, is he? You do the asking, then, sweetheart, there’s no shame in a woman going after what she wants in this day and age-”

“I _know_ , but that isn’t the point-”

“Is that how you landed Howard, Aunt Jackie?”

“Oh no,” said Jackie breezily, “He came after me. Starting doing home deliveries, and I thought, that’s a bit odd, but I didn’t think anything of it until he…”

Rose tuned out of the conversation, her thoughts preoccupied with last night’s events.

The D.I. had paid her cab fare, a fact Rose only became aware of when she’d tried to pay herself upon pulling up in front of her flat. The driver told her he’d been instructed to make sure she got home safely. It was another bullet point on a list of increasingly confusing behaviour from the D.I. She just couldn’t figure him out, and had given up in favour of going to bed after scrubbing her face free of make-up and peeling off her sweaty dress. She’d slept poorly.

 

* * *

 

Mickey called, asking if she wanted to swing by the pub with him and Martha after Jackie closed up shop for the day. It was better than anything she had planned for the night, so Rose agreed.  She was glad she had - it proved to be fun. Martha turned out to be very nice, when she wasn’t being monopolized Mickey and his tongue all night long. Rose liked her a lot.

“She’s way out of my league,” Mickey confessed, when Martha got up to order another pint. “Can’t believe she agreed to go out with me.”

“Oh, come off it,” said Rose. “She’s completely into you! Listen, don’t you dare get all weird and screw it up, y'hear?”

Mickey made a face, but quickly turned it into a grin when Martha returned to the table. His whole face lit up, making Rose feel suddenly like a third wheel, unneccessary and cumbersome. As soon as she finished her chips and ale, she was getting her arse out of there.

She stayed long enough to ask about Keisha - “Dragged her kicking and screaming away from some posh blonde bird who came up to her and told her Louis wasn’t gonna show,” Mickey recounted, grimacing - before taking off to let the lovebirds enjoy each other’s company.

_Getting all weird and screwing things up,_ Rose thought, as she waited for the lift in the lobby of her building - that summed up a lot of things in her life at the moment. The universe seemed to be getting a kick out of screwing with her, so when the lift doors opened to reveal D.I. John Smith, she was sure it was some sort of cosmic joke.

He was wearing his new pinstriped suit and had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He looked up in surprise and she could instantly tell he was not happy to bump into her. The realisation made her feel cold and sorry that she hadn’t stayed longer at the pub with her friends.

They’d spent months flirting, hovering on the line between being friendly neighbours and being more-than-friendly neighbours… she was sure he was attracted to her. And then, suddenly… he wasn’t, anymore?

The D.I. stepped out of the lift, hefting his bag. His trainers squeaked on the polished floor, a jarring note. Since it seemed like he wasn’t going to say anything, Rose cleared her throat, somehow found a voice to speak with.

“Thanks for the fare. I’ll pay you back.”

“You don’t have to.”

_Yes I do_ , Rose thought angrily inside her head. She reigned in the impulse to dig out her purse and give him the money right this instant. She would’ve done it, too, except she’d already spent the last of her cash at the pub and had none to give him. Her eyes fell on his bag. “Going somewhere?”

He didn’t answer straight away. After a brief pause, he said, “The wedding. My cousin’s. It’s out of town. I’ll be gone for a bit. Couple weeks, maybe three.”

Rose nodded. He regarded her pensively, looking as if he wanted to say something. Another awkward silence filled the air.

“Well. I should get going. Good night.”

“Yeah,” said Rose brusquely, moving past him into the lift. “See ya.”

She was going to go straight upstairs and eat a tub of ice cream. Brilliant plan. She jabbed at the button for their floor, wanting nothing more than for this awkward encounter to end.

The doors began to close, and then, suddenly, the D.I. reached out a hand to hold them back, “Rose, wait-”

She looked up from the button console, heart lurching as he lurched forward, halfway into the lift. “What?”

“When I get back,” he said, slowly, carefully, “If you- if you’re free. I still owe you a dinner, don’t I?”

What was he playing at, now? Rose hesitated, trying to gauge the sincerity of the question and refusing to let her silly hopes rise up again. “It depends,” she said, at length.

“On what?”

“On what you mean by dinner.” She paused. “Is this just dinner, or… are you asking me out on a date?”

There. She’d said it. Put it into the open, crossed that invisible line they’d been dancing around for what felt like forever.

His chest hitched, just a fraction, and then he nodded. “Yeah.”

“Which?” she asked, impatiently.

“Yes, I’m asking you out on a date.”

It was her turn to catch her breath. She hoped the mad mixture of emotions - confusion, hope - clashing inside her didn’t show on her face. “Maybe.”

His expression went taut. “That’s not an answer.”

“We’ll see. If you even remember.”

“I’ll remember,” he said firmly, voice dripping with promise. He stepped out of the way and allowed the doors to close, leaving Rose to slump against the lift wall, wondering if she ought to be feeling as happy as she did. It probably wasn’t wise.

After all, three weeks was a long time.

 

* * *

 

“Coffee, coffee, coffee,” chanted Martha, tapping her feet against the barstool she was sitting on.

Mickey shook his head, grinning, and hurried over with both their drinks in hand. Rose followed behind him, once again feeling a bit like a third wheel. He’d dropped by to return a DVD he’d borrowed from Rose the week before, and convinced her to come with him to grab a coffee and meet Martha on her break. The Starbucks was located across the street from the hospital where she worked, and it was _very_ busy.

“Here you go, babe,” said Mickey.

“Thank you,” Martha said fervently. She took a long gulp of the coffee, making Rose wince - the fact that she wasn’t burning her tongue off was testament to her almighty need for caffeine. A thirty-six hour shift would do that to anyone, Rose supposed, in sympathy. The groan that issued from Martha’s lungs was heartfelt. “Heaven,” she sighed.

“You’re an addict,” Mickey teased as he blew on the steaming top of his own coffee. Something caught his eye and he set the cup down. “Hang on, isnt that-” Rose dimly heard Mickey say something, but she was distracted by the harried barista calling out her name from behind the counter.

“Mine’s ready,” she said, and hopped to her feet to fetch it. 

Rose was turning back to return to her seat when she finally noticed what - or more specifically, _who_ \- Mickey was staring at. The heat of the drink in her hand suddenly felt scalding, as her brain tried to deny what it was she was seeing.

A woman, blonde and beautiful, in an expensive looking dress had her arm hooked through the arm of her companion. They made their way slowly towards the counter, queuing up to order drinks. The woman’s attention was fixated on the menu but the man was far more interested in his surroundings than in coffee. He looked about the shop, sweeping his gaze over all the exits and then quickly over every individual on the premises.

When his eyes fell on Rose, she turned sharply and said to Mickey and Martha, “I’m going to the loo,” and walked straight towards him. In her haste, she didn’t see the briefcase belonging to a man sitting at a table adjacent to her path and tripped. A hand grasped her arm, pulled her upright.

“You okay?” the D.I. asked. His ability to cross rooms at the speed of light - whether to get away from her after crowding her against a kitchen sink or to keep her from falling flat on her nose - always seemed to be at a crossroads from what she wanted from him.

“Fine!” she said, more loudly than was necessary. She stepped away from his hold. “Wasn’t watching where I was going.” Rose smiled. She hoped she was bloody smiling, anyway, and said stiffly, “Out of town?”

The woman might be his cousin. There was every possibility this stunningly beautiful, well-dressed, sophisticated woman was his cousin - the one whose wedding he was supposed to be attending. But as soon as the words left her mouth and she saw his reaction, Rose _knew_. The look on his face - like he’d been caught in a lie - she simply couldn’t bear it.

“Right,” she muttered bleakly, and darted around them towards the exit.

Rose pushed through the door, letting it bang shut with a loud clang, rattling the glass windows. She walked furiously in the direction of the intersection. Someone called out her name.

“Rose!”

She ignored the voice, kept on walking.

“Rose!”

The light turned red, she was forced to stop. She spun around, forcing her features into a calm, composed expression as the D.I. caught up to her. He reached out a hand as if to touch her, but stopped short at the look on her face.

“Just get back from out of town, then?” she asked, tone frigid. “How was the wedding?”

He didn’t flinch, as she’d hoped he would. He exhaled, shoving a hand into his hair, finally forcing out, “It’s not what you think it is.”

“What’s that?”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he seemed at a loss for words. So Rose, taking a deep breath, did it for him- “This is where you tell me she’s just a friend.”

“She’s not a friend,” he said. “Not exactly.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“I can’t explain any more than that,” he was saying, as Rose’s brain went around in dizzying, uncertain circles. “It’s just not what you think.”

“Detective!”

His companion, the elegant blonde, stood twenty paces away outside the coffee shop, beckoning him back to her side.

He said, “I’ve got to go,” and hurried off, leaving Rose to stand foolishly by herself on the street, his last words echoing in her ears like a demented refrain she just couldn’t make any sense of no matter how hard she tried.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know that pepper spray/mace is illegal in the U.K. and carrying/using it would have legal repercussions, but for the purposes of this story, please pretend otherwise. Thanks!

**Chapter Five:**

“Sorry about running off the other day,” Rose said into her mobile, curled up on her sofa in her oldest pair of sweatpants and a vest top that had holes in the hem around the back. She tried thinking of an excuse, but couldn’t come up with one. Mickey had probably recognized the D.I. and put two and two together anyway. The last thing she wanted was to talk about it, though, so she left the apology unaccompanied by explanation.

“That’s okay,” said Martha, while in the background Mickey could be heard saying ‘no it’s not’ followed by an exaggerated 'ow’, probably from the slap to the arm his girlfriend had likely given him. “Ignore him. He’s just cross  Arsenal are losing. Are you alright, Rose?”

“Just tired,” Rose replied, wishing Martha weren’t quite so observant. “Feeling a bit crampy.”

“Ah. Well, if you need a prescription for strong painkillers, you know who to ask.”

“Really?” asked Rose. In the muffled background, Mickey’s voice distantly echoed, 'what, really?’

“That was a joke,” said Martha. “Just a joke.”

“Tease.”

“Alright, I’ll let you go, you sound knackered. A hot water bottle and chocolate are my professional recommendations,” Martha added kindly, before ringing off.

Morosely, Rose set her mobile down and curled into a tighter ball, wishing for chocolate and something decent to watch on telly. When neither of those things seemed imminent in her future, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about what had happened.

What angered, what _hurt_ her the most was that she couldn’t understand _why_. Did having more than one woman at a time give him some sort of cheap thrill? Did he get off on cheating? Was it even cheating, if they’d never been on a date, never kissed, never shagged - _why_ string her along?

Maybe it was the sheer convenience Rose offered. She’d always been there, naively entertaining him, providing hot meals and company when he needed it, at odd hours - all the while he was lustfully cavorting with some posh blonde. Lurid images coalesced in her mind as hot humiliation swept over her in a wave. She pushed it down, reminded herself that she’d been skeptical anyway. After all, he’d been running hot and cold for weeks and finding out what sort of man he was before _really_ getting involved was lucky, wasn’t it?

“Bloody lucky,” she said, hoping saying the words aloud would make her feel better. It didn’t. Rose sunk further down on the sofa and buried her face into a throw cushion.

And then the doorbell rang, breaking the silence of the flat.

It was after eleven pm. There was only person who ever came around to visit her at this hour. A surge of renewed anger flooded her veins and Rose lurched to her feet, tossing her blanket and cushion to the floor. She stalked across the room - already mentally composing a verbal lashing that would leave him black and blue and make her mother _proud_ \- and flung the door open.

A gorgeous blonde with blue eyes and a designer handbag was standing on her welcome mat, looking startled. Rose gaped back at her. It was the same woman she had seen on the D.I.’s arm in the coffee shop across the street from the hospital.

“G-good evening,” said the woman, a nervous flicker spreading over her pretty features. “Is Detective Inspector Smith at home?”

Feeling as if she were having some sort of terrible bad dream, Rose said, “What?”

This seemed to fluster her visitor, who darted a glance over her shoulder before apologizing, “I’m very sorry about the lateness of the hour, but it’s important that I speak to the Detective immediately. I-”

“He’s not here,” said Rose, curtly, but the lift dinged again, distracting them both.

There was panic in the woman’s face as she looked back to Rose. She said, hastily, “Please- please, may I come in?”

“What?”

_“Please!”_

The edge of urgency in her voice startled Rose, and a sense of misgiving began to sweep over the situation. Slowly she pulled back, opening the door further to let the woman inside. She was limping, adding to the surreal factor. As Rose shut the door she saw Andy from number 402 get out of the lift, whistling.

“Evening,” he said, with a wave.

“Evening,” said Rose back, wondering if she’d been tricked somehow.

Her visitor nodded as Rose gestured for her to take a seat on the sofa. She sat stiffly, favouring her right ankle - no cast, no bandage, a sprain, maybe.

“Thank you,” she said. “My name is Reinette. I’m sorry for the intrusion, but…” she trailed off, looking lost. Rose softened slightly, noticing the tremor in the other woman’s hands, and the way her jaw was clenched, and the tense line of her neck, as ramrod straight as the posture of her back. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked. Even with dislike and mistrust clouding her judgment, Rose could tell that Reinette was genuinely distressed. It was evident in her demeanor. “Why are you so frightened?”

“I’m not.”

Right. Liar. “What do you want, then?”

“Sorry?”

“You wanted to come in. What for?”

“Well, I- I just…”

“What?” Rose asked, on her very last nerve. “It’s late, like you said. If you aren’t going to tell me why you’re here, then I’d like you to leave.”

Reinette blanched, a hand rising to her throat. Something shiny on her finger caught the light - it was an impressively sized diamond, set in a dainty gold ring. A wedding ring. She fiddled with the rock, anxiously. “Are- are you certain the Detective isn’t at home?”

“You’ve got the wrong flat.” Rose realised the woman must have mistaken her unit for the D.I’s. “He lives next door.”

Confusion coloured Reinette’s face. She echoed, “Next… door?”

Some things were starting to fall into place. _It’s not what it looks like._ Reinette was married. If she and the D.I. were having an affair, she would not have shown up on his doorstep and insisted on coming inside when another woman opened the door. She’d assumed that Rose’s flat was the D.I.’s, which meant she assumed they were living together. Which meant…

“You’re a case,” said Rose, slowly. “I can see that now. Doesn’t mean I’m not cross, cos’ I still am. I’m very cross, in fact. He could’ve just _said_ -”

Reinette frowned, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

Rose’s reply was cut short by the sound of the doorknob being turned, roughly and without any sort of finesse or care. Whoever was on the other side of the door wanted in, badly, and didn’t mind if the occupants knew.

Reinette’s face went as pale as a sheet. She jerked to her feet, fist clenched in her skirt, and cried, “It’s them! They’ve found me!”

“What? Who?”

“They must’ve followed me here,” the other blonde said, genuine fear in her voice. Rose shushed her, listening intently. The jostling continued with determination.

“Who is it?” Rose looked from the door to Reinette, that feeling of misgiving coming back tenfold. “What’s going on?”

Reinette clutched at Rose’s arm, fingernails digging painfully into her skin, but didn’t reply. _What have I let myself into?_ Rose wondered, with a sinking heart. There was scuffling and the murmur of voices - unfamiliar and male - from the corridor outside. Something scraped the keyhole, a metallic sound… they were picking the lock.

“Come on,” Rose hissed, and pushed the other woman - none too gently - towards the direction of her bedroom. The alternative was letting whoever it was take Reinette, and Rose didn’t think she could.

“Stay here,” Rose instructed, seizing the bat from her closet. “Get your mobile, call for help.”

“But-”

“Do it,” she snapped.

“I don’t have Detective Inspector Smith’s phone number! We always rendezvoused at the police station!”

Rose stared at her in disbelief, and then shook her head. “Call the police, then!”

“I don’t know the-”

“For god’s sake, it’s nine-nine-bloody-nine!” Christ, she wasn’t good in an emergency at all, was she? Rose gritted her teeth and took a deep breath, holding her bat at the ready as she moved back into the living room.

The door swung open, and two figures entered. One was speaking in a low voice. “Simon’ll pay us once we get her back to his place, I’m sure of it. He’s been after this bint for weeks. I parked out back, you can shove her in the trunk.”

They were just… boys, she realised, startled. Barely in their late teens, both gangly, one taller than the other. They were dressed like they were about to go hit up the clubs, or had just come from one. Even so, the odds weren’t in her favour, two to one, even with Reinette hiding in her bedroom.

“Oi! W-who are you?” she demanded, trying to sound brave and indignant, and hoping that the tremor in her hands wasn’t noticeable.

“Is that her?” The tall one asked, ignoring her completely. He was ginger and freckly and looked like he’d been stretched out vertically on a washing line.

The shorter one, clearly the leader, scowled, “Not the right blonde.  I’ll check the bedroom.” He nodded in Rose’s direction, the universally well-known bad-guy gesture that meant 'take care of this one’, as if they were in a _movie_ or something.

Rose took a step back as the short one headed towards the bedroom. She continued backing up, until she hit the edge of the shelf against the wall where she’d left her bag. The bloke that remained stared at her, and then shrugged, coming forward to do his friend’s bidding.

“You stay away!” she warned, waving the bat awkwardly with one arm, “D'you hear? Stay away from me!”

“Just shut up, and we won’t hurt you,” he said in a crabby voice, grabbing the end of the bat. “You’re not the bird we’re after.”

They had a tug-of-war session as he advanced, giving Rose just enough time to silently work one-handed at the zipper of her bag behind her back. She plunged her hand inside and withdrew a small can of mace, the one she always carried with her. Rose let go of the bat, throwing him off balance and as he stumbled, she whipped the can out and hit the safety mechanism to unlock it, spraying the contents directly into his face.

He dropped to his knees, howling, losing grip on the bat. Within seconds the boy’s face had turned an angry, blistering red, his eyes streaming with tears. He bellowed in agony, and Rose thought, _God, who knew mace was so effective?_ The effects didn’t last long, so she kicked him hard while he was down. Her eyes fell on the lamp sitting on the side-table and without a second thought, Rose grabbed it and slammed it over his head. He collapsed to the floor, covered in shards of glass. Out cold.

Seizing the bat, Rose went to Reinette’s rescue, wishing she had a second can of spray. In her panic, she’d pressed too hard and broken the nozzle.

The bedroom was a disaster. Rose had three rapid thoughts in succession - the first was the annoyed realisation that she’d have to clean up the mess afterwards, the second was the terrifying thought that she might not be around for 'afterwards’, and the third was _like hell I won’t be!_

Reinette was struggling; kicking and biting and screaming as her assailant clamped both arms around her shoulders in an attempt to lift her off her feet. Rose charged headlong into the fray, knocking both of them onto the bed. The force of their combined weight made the old frame creak and shudder against the wall as the bat fell from Rose’s hands, clattering and rolling to the doorway.

Reinette screeched and scrambled from the bed while Rose grappled with the bloke. He captured both her arms, so she kneed him, unfortunately missing his groin and catching his thigh instead. It still seemed to hurt, though, from the way he grunted, his grip on her wrists loosening. She yanked back her arm and slapped him, but the angle was wrong and he jerked down and away, twisting slightly. Rose caught the side of his ear with her fingernails, dug them into the fleshy lobe and had the bloodthirsty thought of maybe tearing it right off. His elbow went into her gut, making her wheeze. He shoved her away from him, but there was nowhere for her to go in her tiny bedroom. Her head banged against the wall, and for a moment she saw stars.

“Bitch! You almost ripped my ear off!” he shouted, looking incredulous, as if it had not occurred to him that either one of them would fight back. A schoolyard bully, she thought, she’d dealt with plenty of his kind during her own school years. Rose prepared herself to dodge his upraised arm, but it wasn’t necessary.

Sensing opportunity, Reinette had grabbed the closest, hardest object within reach - the stool next to Rose’s vanity - and whacked him across the back of the head with it. He lost his balance, falling forward. Rose would’ve cheered, if she weren’t so winded. Reinette was red in the face, her hair falling out of its neat chignon, and there was a manic gleam in her expression that looked the way Rose felt - desperate, determined.

She watched as the would-be kidnapper received a second blow to the skull, this one sending him to the floor, face first. He yelped and curled up instinctively to protect his already much abused head, leaving his side open to attack. Rose surged over the bed and stomped down without second thought or remorse. He let out a bloodcurdling scream that made Reinette rear back in shock.

“Kidneys,” Rose panted. “Getting kicked in the kidneys hurts just as much as getting kicked in the b-”

If the sounds of their fighting hadn’t woken the neighbours, that wounded scream most certainly had.  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and then in Rose’s living room, as several of the other tenants on the floor came storming in.

“Oh my god!” someone screeched. “Is he dead?”

“Someone call the police!”

Reinette dropped the stool, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide and her hands shook, as if she couldn’t quite believe what had just taken place. Rose touched the back of her head, where a great big lump was forming. She’d have a nasty bruise.

Andy from 402 dashed into the room, “Rose! Are you alright? The police are on their way, _what the hell happened?”_

“I had some unwelcome guests,” panted Rose, her eyes falling on Reinette - who came out of her catatonic state of shock long enough to wince.

 

* * *

 

The police arrived shortly after - the D.I. included, looking like he’d just weathered a tornado. He burst into the flat and was nearly bowled over by Reinette, who flung herself at him as soon as he entered. Over her head, his eyes scoured the room, stopping on Rose. At the sight of her some of the colour returned to his pale, drawn face.

She looked away, and couldn’t help but scowl, having noticed the way Reinette’s heaving bosom collided with his arm. _Not important,_ she told herself.

The D.I. pushed her away and snapped, “What the hell, Reinette?”

“I was attacked!”

“I mean what the hell are you doing _here_?” He sounded angrier than Rose had ever heard him sound, his patience worn to a thin thread, ready to snap at any moment.

Reinette, who had sharp self-preservation skills, stepped back, sucking in a injured breath. With a slight stammer, she said, “I… I saw those two, lurking outside my hotel room. I thought they were up to no good, so I left and came here to look for you. I thought it would be safer-”

The D.I. stared at her. After a moment, he said grimly, “Someone take her back to the station.”

As she docilely obliged with this order and was escorted out of the flat by a sleepy constable, the D.I. got out his phone. He hadn’t said a word to Rose yet, but he’d been looking at her every few seconds, as if to make sure she wasn’t about to disappear.

“I’m going to kill you, Anderson,” he gritted into his mobile. “I tell you to stay with her and the instant my bloody back is turned you let her _wander_ off?”

Rose sat numbly on the bit of sofa that wasn’t covered in broken glass, rubbing her sore head as the D.I. continued to rip into his unfortunate partner. She winced, fingers catching on a tangle in her hair. Abruptly he hung up and crossed the room to stand over her, eyes fixed on her face. His hand lifted, as if to touch her, but the officer who had swept Reinette away returned and the D.I. pulled back, his expression rigid.

 

* * *

 

Two officers stood outside the interrogation room Rose had been set up in. A well-meaning paramedic had thrown a blanket over her shoulders at the scene, and she clutched at it as she listened to the conversation going on just beyond the door.

“ _–Meanwhile_ their boss was getting arrested across town. Bloody idiots. What d'you think they’d have done once they got back and the club was brimming with cops? Fled the scene? Left her in the boot? Might’ve been ages before anyone found her. Christ!”

“Did you see the state they were in? That kid’s face looked like he’d been through a flippin’ meat grinder!”

“Mace allergy,” another voice informed him, grimly. “Like second degree burns, according to the nurse. Close call, that one. The swelling almost blocked his airways, it’s a good thing we got there in time.”

“Christ almighty.”

“They weren’t armed. Wonder why?”

“Well, they were just kids, playing at being baddies. Saw the one with the ruined face with his crying mam.” There was a heavy sigh. “They weren’t acting under orders.”

“Thank god for that,” the first officer said, feelingly. “Those girls wouldn’t have stood a chance against a gun.”

A chill swept through Rose. She shivered as the door to the interrogation room opened, and the D.I. stepped inside, holding a steaming mug of tea.

“You alright?”

She accepted the tea and nodded. “I’m okay.”

He looked at her carefully, and sat down in the opposite seat. “No injuries?”

Well, her head was sore as hell, and so was her stomach, but - “I’m fine.” The paramedic who’d given her the blanket had given her an ice pack and two paracetemols as well. The ice pack lay discarded on the table, but she took the pills now, swallowing them down with the strong, bitter tea.

“They’re both in hospital,” the D.I. said. There was something in his tone that sounded almost… proud. “You didn’t have to break the lamp over his head. The one you left in the living room.”

“He started it,” Rose said, teeth chattering slightly, ruining the coolness of the statement.

“The man we found in the bedroom with a stool jammed into his gut is in emergency getting stitches in the head-”

“Reinette,” said Rose, giving credit where it was due-

“-and treatment for serious blunt trauma to the kidney.”

An insane urge to giggle almost overcame her as Rose repeated the bit of trivia she’d parroted earlier to Reinette, “Getting kicked in the kidneys hurts just as much as getting kicked in the-”

“Yeah, remind me not to get into a fight with you.” The D.I. paused. “This self-defence course of yours, was it taught by Chuck Norris by any chance?”

“No,” said Rose. “I took it at the community center. The instructor was a volunteer, her name was Meredith and she’s a grandmother of four.”

“Of course she was.” He was quiet for a moment, eyes flicking to the open steno pad on the table before him. “I didn’t want you to get involved,” he said, finally, shoving a hand into his wildly messy hair. Rose didn’t think her own was faring much better. “Reinette Poisson’s husband has ties to some unpleasant people. He got himself into hot water and made a deal with us in exchange for protection for himself and his wife-”

The door opened again, interrupting him. A constable poked his head in. “Sir, she’s asking for you- gone all hysterical, won’t talk to anyone else-”

There was no doubt who 'she’ was. The D.I. looked over his shoulder, distracted, his brow darkening in a way that meant he was about to unleash a truly fearsome scowl. He looked back to Rose, and she knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“I’ve got to go.”

Sudden fatigue overtook Rose, the exertions of the night seeming to take their toll all at once.

“Yeah,” she said, exhausted. “You always do.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the fabulous anniviech / anni-draws @ tumblr. Thank you friend!!!

** **

_(art by anniviech/anni-draws @ tumblr.com)_

 

* * *

 

 

Rose took the week off and returned to her flat three nights later, more apprehensive about the mess she’d likely find than any lingering psychological trauma. She feared it’d be in a horrific state after two fights and policemen combing through her things - only to discover the place perfectly put to rights. All the furniture had been set back in it’s proper place, the broken glass of the lamp bulb sorted… even her bed had been made, nice and neat, with freshly laundered sheets and hospital corners to boot.

She thought she knew who had done the cleaning up and the knowledge left her feeling ambivalent.

Rose hadn’t seen the D.I. since he’d left the interrogation room that night. He’d rung, three times, and left messages on her voicemail - brief, almost impersonal ones that she’d only listened to once and left unanswered.

_Just checking in._

_You’re not home. I’ll call again._

_Reinette’s pressing charges against those lads - will you do the same?_

Nothing she wanted to hear.

 

* * *

 

The D.I. was at home. She could hear him banging about in his flat, his tread heavy on the creaky wooden floors. She had no idea what he was doing, but it sounded like he was pacing back and forth from his kitchen to his front door, over and over.

Rose tried her best to ignore it.

She was heading out to do her shopping when he appeared, coming out of his flat just as she left hers. The timing was so impeccable as to be frankly unlikely, and she wondered if he’d planned it.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” said Rose, closing her door and locking it behind her. Briefly, out of habit, really, she ran a hand through her hair, wishing she’d spent more time brushing it this morning. _Doesn’t matter,_ she reminded herself, she didn’t care what she looked like. It was Sunday, she wasn’t going anywhere, and he always looked like shite himself anyway.

“You didn’t go home,” he said, watching as she dropped her keys into her pocket. He meant after leaving the police station. She had gone to her Mum’s, to the estate, and slept all day in her old bed, blocking out the world. Her old bedroom still had loads of her childhood things in it, and there was something comforting about being there and letting Jackie fuss over her.

“This place was a crime scene,” she said, shrugging and carefully keeping her face devoid of emotion. Her heart sank at the familiarity of the situation. They’d done this before… this push and pull, the never-ending reluctance making Rose want to scream in frustration. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, though.

Mum had squeezed the whole story out of her, including all the confusing, embarrassing, does-he-or-doesn’t-he bits involving him; from their unfulfilled date to his distant behaviour to Reinette’s dramatic appearance. Jackie had been appropriately furious and called the D.I. all sorts of creatively insulting names. It had made Rose feel slightly better at the time, and now she was trying her best not to regurgitate those names in his face and fling her shopping bag at him before storming off in a rage.

“You didn’t answer your mobile.”

She felt a flash of irritation, thinking of his curt messages. “I wanted to sleep.”

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Sleep.”

She leveled a look at him, one that dared him to say she looked tired or unwell or anything even remotely unflattering. “Yes. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look like he believed her. But he merely asked, “Where are you going?”

“To the shops,” she said.

He opened his mouth and shut it, awkwardly. Rose waited to see if he would say anything else. He apparently didn’t have anything to say, so she moved past him and went on with her day.

She fell into a depressed stupor as soon as she exited the building, and mechanically went through the motions at the supermarket, making purchases without really thinking about them.

She wouldn’t hold her breath for an apology, or an explanation. Even if Reinette had turned out to be just a misunderstanding there was no ignoring the fact that he would never prioritize whatever relationship they might have over his own personal life. Case or not, the result was always the same. Whether it was Reinette, work, or a stray cloud - something came beckoning and he went running, leaving her in the lurch. She was tired of doing the chasing, sick of waiting around on a man who only seemed to be interested when it was convenient for him.

_I’m better than that,_ she thought when she got home, staring glumly at her kitchen sink. An inch of grimy water sat at the bottom of it, refusing to drain.

This was going to be unpleasant. She braced herself for an afternoon of cleaning, and was rummaging around her kitchen searching for a pair of rubber gloves when there came a knock on her door.

Rose ground to a halt, a flash of apprehension gripping her insides. It was an involuntary response that made her feel foolish. She took a deep breath and collected herself. There was nothing to be scared of, but… blimey, a girl was allowed to be a bit worried after the week she’d had. After all, every time someone was at the door asking to be let in, bad things had unerringly followed.

The D.I. was on the other side, which didn’t surprise her, even as it did. His excuse was as flimsy as his attempt to look casual.

“Cup of sugar?” he asked, lifting an empty mug.

She regarded him stonily. “What d'you need sugar for?”

“Tea,” he said. He didn’t drink tea. Not of his own volition, anyway - he was a coffee man, black, full strength dark roast, enough caffeine to quadruple his heartbeat and send him to an early grave.

“Wait here,” said Rose, unimpressed, and went into the kitchen to fetch the bag of sugar she’d borrowed from him. She thrust it at his chest. “Here. It’s yours.”

“I don’t need it all,” he protested, trying to give it back to her, but she refused.

“Just take it. I’ll buy my own.”

“I don’t need the sugar, Rose,” he said, in his deep, gravelly cop voice, the one that meant he was serious. Her heart did a weird flip flop in her chest, and she forced herself to look away. He opened his mouth but his mobile buzzed at the same moment, cutting off whatever he was about to say.

“You’d better get that,” she said, trying to end the conversation before he could. She was tired of being the one left hanging. To her surprise, he pulled his phone out, jabbed at the hang up button, and flipped it over. Looking her in the eye, he pointedly pulled off the back casing and removed the battery, shoving all of it back into his pocket without a word.

He wasn’t giving up easily. “I still owe you a dinner, don’t I?”

“Forgot all about it,” she lied.

He absorbed this response silently, pausing for a moment before saying, “I haven’t. A debt is a debt.”

“It’s not a debt,” said Rose, with the strong feeling that this conversation was heading in a direction she really didn’t want it to go in. Not if they were talking about debts, as if she was a transaction he had to finish up.

“Yeah it is. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Are you busy?”

“Yes. I’ve got a clogged sink,” she said.

“I could give you a hand with that, if you like.”

She looked at him incredulously. “You want to help me clear my drains?”

“I’m handy.”

There was a determined glint to his eye. If she said no, he’d just find some other excuse to linger. Rose shrugged, trying not to let the prospect unsettle her. “OK. Fine. You can help.”

“Great.”

Exactly what was great about having to de-clog a sink, she didn’t know. Silently she let him into the flat, and led the way to the kitchen. He felt guilty. It didn’t mean anything more. She would not let herself have expectations.

He walked over to the sink and peered down at it, rolling up his sleeves. Rose hovered behind him, watching as he lifted the bottle of drain cleaner she’d purchased from the shops on her earlier excursion. He frowned at the label, reading the instructions.

“Was just about to try that when you knocked,” she said.

He nodded and uncapped the bottle, pouring about a fourth of it into the grimy water in the basin. “It says to let it sit for five to ten minutes.”

“OK.”

It was bloody awkward, waiting for the caustic-smelling green liquid to work. Twenty minutes passed, in silence. It didn’t work.

“It must be a pretty bad clog,” he said, after poking at the drain for a bit with the back end of a wooden spoon.

“I’ll call a plumber,” said Rose glumly. It was money she didn’t want to spend, but at least it would mean she could get him out of her flat.

“No, no, I can-” he opened the cabinet doors under the sink, “I can, you know, open it up, under here. Fix it for you.”

She regarded him doubtfully, but he was already crouched down, squatting level with the old piping. “There should be a valve behind this, somewhere. Ah. Found it.” He paused, and asked, “Do you still have that set of tools I bought?”

She’d tried to give them back when he’d bought them for her along with his other gifts, but they had somehow remained in her flat. Rose nodded, fetching the unopened tool box from the space in the pantry.

“See, I told you they’d come in useful.” He broke the seal on the box and retrieved a small spanner from it. “I’ve shut off the water. I think the clog must be in this bend here in the pipe - should be able to remove just that bit, have you got a bucket?”

Another five minutes passed in which Rose watched, dubiously, as the D.I. went about “fixing” her under sink pipe. He clanged about clumsily, dropping the spanner multiple times - it was clear he had no idea what he was about.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

He didn’t answer, and averted his gaze, telling her just as much.

Rose sighed. “Seriously, I’ll just call a plumber-”

“I’ve got it!” he said, cranking hard on the spanner, pulling the last bolt loose. He knocked on the bit of pipe he’d been working on, and it popped partially free. “There we go- oh, _shite!”_

The angle of the pipe sent water arcing into the air and Rose, unfortunately, got a face full of spray. She stumbled back, spluttering, as the D.I. cursed and hurried to shut the water valve off.

“Jesus, sorry! I’m so sorry, here-” He seized a clean kitchen towel and wiped her face with it, his expression equal parts horrified and apologetic. His fingers tangled into the wet ends of her messy bun, and she stood still, allowing him to dry her off.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” she replied, blinking a few times to shake off the water that clung to her eyelashes. Rose felt his fingers twitch, slightly, in her hair - he still had his hand on her neck. Awareness of his proximity, of his gaze, made her feel unbearably affected.

“Thanks.”

“It was my fault.”

She shrugged, pulling back slightly, hoping he’d get the hint to let her go. “It’s alright, these pipes are old-”

“No,” he said, quietly, inching closer still. “I don’t mean that. It was my fault. I’m sorry.”

Rose’s stomach flipped. She stared at his Adam’s apple, and considered her response. It was difficult to think with him right in front of her, his head bent towards her own and his hand warm against her nape.

“I am,” he continued, taking her silence as disbelief. “Very sorry, as a matter of fact.”

“What are you sorry for?” Rose asked plainly, releasing a breath she’d convinced herself she was holding. She didn’t meet his gaze. “For Reinette? Or for acting like I don’t…” _-matter_ , “Like we weren’t…”

She trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought. “You know what? Nevermind.”

“For everything,” he said quickly, throat convulsing as he spoke, refusing to let her withdraw. “I should’ve made it clear that Reinette was just a case. I’m just so used to putting work above everything else, I didn’t take your feelings into account. I just thought… ” He sighed, frustration leaking into his confessions, “I don’t know what I was thinking, beyond that I didn’t want you to get involved with what I was dealing with… and it happened, anyway.”

He broke off, shaking his head, and Rose knew he was berating himself. There was no way anyone could have predicted Reinette’s surprise visit, nor the home invasion, but she knew it would be pointless to try to convince him of that. It was besides the point, she reminded herself.

“And we _are_ ,” he added, abruptly. “What you said. I won’t deny that I resisted, for a very long time-” Rose stiffened, but the D.I. went on, tipping her chin up and forcing her to look at him. “It’s because you’re right next door,” he said, slowly. “You’re my neighbour. If we get involved… that complicates things.”

He made it complicated, Rose thought bitterly. A morose feeling swept over her - they hadn’t even had a relationship, technically, and she was already having trouble getting over him.

As if he’d read her mind, his face went resolute. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I want to very much. I’m a workaholic who’s rubbish at relationships and I probably don’t deserve this, but…”

Her lips were dry, so she licked them. “What?”

“You. This sweet, gorgeous girl moves in next door, and you liked me, too. How often does that happen? Couldn’t believe my luck.”

“Didn’t seem that way.”

He looked at her, quizzical. “Didn’t it?”

“Could never tell, if you liked me or not. Sometimes I thought you did, but nothing ever happened. You never made a proper move.”  

“I was frightened. You have to understand… Rose, you’re _fantastic_ , and I… I buy loo roll in bulk from Amazon.co.uk.”

That almost made Rose smile. He pressed on, sensing a chink in her armor.

“I was working up the nerve, trying to find the right moment, but…” He scowled. “Thought you’d been nicked out from right under my nose by Rickey the idiot! To make things worse, I got assigned to the Poisson case and had to keep my distance. And then you kept showing up where I didn’t want you to be. The night club-” he groaned. “And then at bloody Starbucks!”

Rose hesitated, lips parting- but he spoke again, his voice deep and earnest. “I know you were confused and hurt. That was entirely my fault. I’m sorry. Please.”

She believed him… but it still wasn’t enough.

“I’ve had boyfriends before, who ignored me,” she said, quietly, “I don’t want another one.”

“Ignore you?”

“You’re always running off. Like you said, work comes before everything else. You haven’t the time for eating or sleeping. You haven’t got time for me,” she said, at length.

“I’ll make time,” he said, urgently. At her disbelieving silence, he added, “It’s… something I have to work on, I know. Work isn’t everything. It shouldn’t be. I don’t want it to be.” He tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. His voice was low and intimate, making Rose feel things in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with anger or misery. “Rose?”

“What?”

“One more chance,” he said, thumb stroking her nape. She felt her resolve crumble, like sugar crystals submerged in water. “Is that okay?”

A shaky “Yeah,” came out before she had time to really think it through.

“Really?”

She nodded. Then she frowned.

“What?”

“You can’t change your mind.”

“I won’t.” He shook his head and corrected himself. “There’s absolutely no chance of that happening.”

“Okay.”

His smile widened, relief and cheer turning it up to full wattage. He didn’t smile nearly enough, she thought, she needed him to smile more often so she could get used to it and not get butterflies in the pit of her stomach every time he did.

“You’ll have dinner with me, then?”

“Mm.”

He stroked her cheek. “What are you thinking?”

She blinked and realised she’d been staring at him like a besotted fool. “Nothing.”

“If you’re worried I’m going to cancel again, I won’t. I booked the weekend off. I turned off my mobile. You saw me take the battery out. It’ll drain. I already threw the charger cable into the bin. No interruptions, I promise.”

“You’ll be sorry come Monday.”

“I figured I could just use yours,” he said with casual confidence. “You’ve got the same charger in your bedroom on your nightstand.”

That was a bit presumptuous, wasn’t it? Her capitulation seemed to give him his old assurance back, that take-charge boldness that had captured her attention in the first place.

“No charging on the first date,” she said firmly, those pesky butterflies taking flight again in her belly. “I’ve got standards.”

“Fair enough. Second date? Third date? When do I get access to the outlet?”

Rose bit her lip. Ten minutes ago she’d been so angry with him, so convinced they’d never work out their differences. Now she was pressed up against him as he made very blatant and bad innuendos. The air in the room suddenly felt charged, ripe with an unexpected anticipation. This rapid shift in mood, from one kind of tension to another, made Rose feel heady and reckless.

Yeah, they were probably going too fast. He’d only bared a little bit of his soul, after all, and maybe she ought to make him work harder for it. But what was the point? She didn’t want to make him beg. She just wanted him to be honest, and she thought he had been. He really wanted her, really wanted to try turning their attraction into something bigger and better. Playing hard to get wasn’t in her nature, so she let herself throw caution to the wind and see where this moment would lead.

“Depends,” she said, slowly, tilting her head back to look up at him through her lashes. “You’re still on probation.”

“Will good behaviour be taken into account?”

“How good are we talking?”

“Oh, very good. You’ll be impressed.”

“Mhm.”

The D.I. leaned in, sensing a challenge. “You sound unconvinced. I am very good, I’ll have you know.” His shoulders straightened of their own accord, drawing him up to his full height.

Rose went on tiptoe to match him. “So you say.”

He arched an eyebrow, hand on her waist. “You’re wet.” The suddenness of both the observation and statement caught her off guard and made her stomach swoop hotly. “Your blouse.” She felt his hand press into the small of her back, bunching the fabric of said blouse there. “It’s soaked.”

The top was thin and white, and had gone translucent from the drenching she’d received. The outline of her bra was clearly visible, among other things. Things like her nipples, for instance, which had puckered from the cold wetness and only grew more prominent as he gazed down at them, fixated. She hovered between arousal and embarrassment, unsure of what to do or say, but he took care of it by easing her even closer towards him, pressing her to his chest.

“Shall I demonstrate?” His voice was low, full of promise.

“Demonstrate?”

“How good I can be.”

His breath ghosted on her cheek; she was able to get out a weak, “You-” before he cut her off by sealing his mouth over hers.

Rose clung to him, letting him explore her mouth with his tongue, happy to enjoy the taste and feel of being thoroughly snogged. She’d been waiting for this for months.

She wasn’t the only one who felt like combusting from the finally released tension. The D.I. cradled her head, kissing her as if his life depended on it. She let her hands rise to his hair, delving into it the way she had done in her mother’s salon, but this time in the context she’d only dreamed about. He made a pleased sound, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along her jaw, causing a pleasurable ache deep inside her.

He backed her up slowly, step by step, until she was pressed against the refrigerator. One knee pushed between her legs, sliding up, until she was riding it. All the while he went on kissing her throat and ear, his mouth an all-encompassing distraction as his hands cleverly undid the buttons of her blouse. He pushed it aside and palmed both breasts through the damp lace of her bra, thumbs rubbing over the aching, peaked nipples. It felt so good, and Rose couldn’t help the moan that escaped her.

He bent to lick at the curve of her breast above the lace cups before yanking down on the bra to reveal her fully. He took one rosy tip into his mouth, tongue swirling around it as he pinched the other between his fingers. Rose squeaked, her arousal ratcheting up ten more notches as he licked and sucked at her chest.

One hand dropped to her knee and slid up her thigh, up and around her hip to the placket of her jeans. He slowly undid the button and zipper of as she watched, breath hitched. She gasped as his fingers slipped inside, skimmed under the edge of her knickers and stroked slick flesh. She was embarrassingly wet, shamefully eager, and wanted him so, so much.

“Wet here, too,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder. His thumb found her clit and rubbed. Rose jolted, like she’d been struck by lightning. He pressed his forehead to hers and stroked in a measured, knowing rhythm, building the pressure. She gripped his hair, to the point where it must have hurt, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He was as single-mindedly focused on her coming as she was and soon the hand that wasn’t tormenting her sensitive nub joined it’s mate, two fingers slipping inside her, filling her wonderfully.

Her eyes fluttered shut, but before long, he was telling her to open them.

“Look at me,” he said. “Rose, look at me.”

Her eyelids seemed to weigh a ton, and each thrust of his fingers only made them heavier. With great effort, she managed to lift her eyes to meet his.

“Kiss me,” he said, slowing the pace, much to her frustration. “Kiss me and I’ll let you come.”

Rose obliged, mashing her mouth to his, desperate for more and kissing him ardently, if perhaps without much thought to technique or precision. She was too far gone and he didn’t seem to mind. He growled when she sucked on his lower lip, biting it between her teeth.

The fingers inside her crooked, hitting just the perfect spot as he pumped them in and out. Rose tensed all over as her orgasm began to build - “That’s it,” he said into her mouth, his breath hot, “You’re there, come on, right there, now, come Rose, _come_ -” and she shattered, falling apart in his arms, head falling back against the fridge.

“Gorgeous,” he praised hoarsely as Rose panted, coming down from her spectacular orgasm. He withdrew his fingers, making her gasp, and soothed her with a kiss. Rose could feel him, hard against her thigh - she shivered, excitement cresting inside her once again, despite the peak she was still trying to recover from.

“Dinner,” he said, pulling away once she stopped trembling. “Have dinner with me.”

She had difficulty making her voice work. “What?”

“Tonight.”

“Like a date?”

“Like a date,” he agreed, his eyes flicking down to her mouth. “A proper date. One hour. Meet me next door.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t cook,” he said, yanking the door open just a little over an hour later. She’d barely knocked. His eyes fell on the new outfit she’d donned. A different blouse replaced the earlier one, this one dipped low enough in the collar to show off a bit of cleavage. Instead of jeans she wore a flirty little skirt that ended just above the knee. His appreciative gaze warmed her.

She smiled, because he’d changed, too, looking handsome in one of the shirts she’d chosen for him. He’d even put on the rose-patterned tie, her favourite. She felt a little flush of pleasure as she looked him over, realising he’d gone to quite a bit of effort, actually - his hair was combed and gelled, he’d shaved, nothing on his body was wrinkled, not even slightly, which meant he’d ironed his shirt and trousers.

“Sorry, but I _really_ can’t cook.”

“Are we going out, then?”

He shook his head, taking her by the hand and leading her into the kitchen. Rose bit back another smile - the table was set for two, complete with candles and flowers. There was a covered dish in the middle, clearly the main course. Rose looked curiously at it as the D.I. pulled out a chair and sat her down in it. Part of her wanted to giggle - she would have, but it might hurt his feelings - he was behaving preciously, like a teenager on his first date, following the rules by the book.

Then he uncovered the dish, looking sheepish, and she exclaimed in delight, “Chips!”

“Sorry,” he said, tugging at his ear. “I tried cooking something, but… well… it sort of looked like the stuff we found in your drain, so… I had chips delivered.”

She reached for one and popped it into her mouth, savouring the burst of salt and grease on her tongue. They were from the chippy several blocks away, the one she favoured. Rose gave the D.I. a brilliant smile. “Well done! I’m starving, I could just _murder_ these right now!”

“Go right ahead,” he said, looking slightly relieved. A few moments passed in awkward silence. The D.I. fiddled with his plate, finally admitting, “It’s been a long time since I went on a date. I’m out of practice.”

Rose thought about the last date she’d been on. That had happened well over six months ago and the bloke had never called her again. He didn’t have to know that, though. “I’ll coach you through it,” she said, licking grease off her finger.

His eyes tracked the movement and he shifted in his seat. “OK,” he agreed. “So, what do we talk about?”

“Usually you ask me how my day went, what I did, and I ask you the same.”

“You know what I did,” he said, mouth tipping up slightly at the corner. “Or, I suppose, who.”

Well, she’d walked him right into that one. Rose cleared her throat briskly. “So that’s covered, then. We could talk about work.”

“No ta.”

“Hobbies?”

“Don’t have any.”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Blue. Yours?”

“Pink.”

“Favourite food?”

“Anything.”

Rose snickered. “Yeah, that’s true. Watching you eat, it’s a bit like watching a hoover.” He didn’t look remotely embarrassed by this assessment. “Is there _anything_ you don’t like to eat?”

“Pears,” he replied at once. “I loathe pears.”

She blinked, and filed the information away for later.

“You like chips,” he said.

“Mhm. What’s your sign?”

“My what?”

“Your zodiac sign. Y'know, horoscopes? I’m a Taurus.” He looked at her blankly, so she said, “When’s your birthday?”

“December 15th.”

“Sagittarius,” said Rose, instantly. Cousin Mo’s birthday was the 17th and she was a Saggitarius. The D.I. looked bemused by her knowledge of the signs. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully at him, while mentally trying to remember the silly things Mo had said about her sign, and how true they all were-

“The Adventurer. Seeker of truth and justice-,” He tilted his head, a half shrug, and she went on, “-knowledge and travel.” He shrugged again, non-committal, but she saw his brow lift, ever so slightly. “Their weaknesses are overworking themselves, being thick about their feelings, and worst of all, gluttony.”

“Now I know you’re taking the piss,” he said, dryly, sitting back. “What about Taurus?”

“Taurus is… the sign of the Lover. Shut up,” said Rose, ignoring his grin. She wanted to throw a chip at him, but she didn’t throw chips, ever. Unless it was into her mouth. Or someone else’s, if she liked them.

“No, please, tell me more about the Lover.”

Rose almost broke her no chips throwing rule but refrained, making a face. The D.I. teased, “I’ve got a laptop, I can go look it up on the internet and that’s bound to yield far worse results than whatever you make up right now on the spot to appease me-”

“If you’re not going to take it seriously,” said Rose primly, “Then I shan’t tell you.”

They polished off the rest of the chips quickly, bantering the entire time. Rose hadn’t realised just how hungry she was. Self-consciously, she wiped her mouth with a napkin, wishing she hadn’t just stuffed her face so voraciously in front of him. The D.I. didn’t notice, however, and offered her a drink. He seemed a bit embarrassed when he realised he didn’t have any wine on hand but Rose didn’t really care.

“Er- tea? I can put the kettle on.”

“That would be lovely, thanks.”

“I’ve got milk in the fridge,” he said, as he filled the kettle with water from the tap. “And sugar in the cabinet, if you want. You take sugar and milk in your tea, don’t you?”

Rose nodded, and was just a tiny bit impressed that he knew how she liked her tea, but then again he was a detective and noticing the little details was his job. Then she realised what he’d said and crossed the kitchen to open the cabinet above the sink- revealing an unopened bag of sugar sitting on the shelf. She raised her eyebrow.

“Come on. Obviously it was an excuse to come over and knock on your door. It worked, didn’t it?” He looked shamelessly satisfied with himself.

Rose decided to let that one go and stood on tiptoe, reaching for the sugar. She felt him come up behind her, his chest brushing her back as he plucked the bag off the shelf with ease.

“There you go,” he said, tilting his head, a smile in his voice. Warmth blossomed heavily in the pit of her stomach as she felt him lay a hand on her hip, turning her to face him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” said Rose, feeling suddenly breathless.

“Now here’s an opportunity I won’t be wasting,” he drawled, tucking her hair behind her ear with a single finger and tracing that digit along the sensitive skin of her neck, trailing electricity where he touched her. The memory of what he’d done with that exact same finger in her own kitchen made her tremble slightly with anticipation and want.

Rose blinked, fighting the urge to fling herself at him. “Hmm?”

“I wanted to do this last time,” was his reply, and then he had both hands in her hair, pulling her close, his lips seeking hers. She melted instantly, molding herself against him, every nerve singing and dancing for joy.

He was deepening the kiss when a startling realisation had her pushing at his shoulders. She pulled back and said urgently, “The kettle!” It was whistling with a vengeance, threatening to boil over.

“Right.” He let go, running a hand through his thoroughly ruffled hair and spinning to the stove, “Don’t want to burn the building down.”

Feeling quite bereft now that she wasn’t being well and truly snogged within an inch of her life, Rose glanced at the empty mugs on the counter. She wasn’t really feeling like tea, after all.

“You know,” said the D.I., turning off the stove-top with a flick of his wrist, “I could do without tea.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. You?”

“I was just thinking the same,” she managed to say, before he closed in on her again, cutting off her ability to speak with his very eloquent tongue. When he stopped to catch his breath, pressing his forehead to hers, Rose whispered, bravely, wantonly, “Bedroom?”

His hand seized hers, pulling her through the doorway, down a hall, into a bedroom that was sparsely furnished, just like the rest of the flat. It contained a bed made up in dark bedclothes, a dresser, and a wardrobe in the corner, both solid pine. He cupped her face as she took all of this in, once again making himself the centre of her focus.

She pulled him forward by the tie, hoping it was sexy, it _felt_ sexy, so that helped a little bit. He seemed to like it, his eyes darkening slightly, and suddenly he had it loose, tugging it up and over his head - Rose made a little sound of loss, but it was short-lived, because the D.I. had decided to slide the silk loop over her head, so that she wore the tie instead.

“It looks better on you,” he said, his hands already at work, unbuttoning her blouse and pulling it apart until the silky length lay nestled between her breasts. It felt heavy and soft against the skin of her stomach, long enough to trail past her belly button.

They exchanged more slow, lazy kisses as the D.I. reached up to cup her left breast over her bra, squeezing gently, testing it’s weight and softness. His hand slipped behind her back, toying with the clasp. The flimsy garment fell loose as he adorned her chest with light, half-open kisses, bursts of moist warmth over her nipples. They peaked, begging for more, for a firmer touch - he half-obliged, delicately closing his mouth over one tip, laving it gently with his tongue, not giving her the pressure she ached for.

Her legs had gone boneless and she was in danger of melting into a puddle on his floor. Fortunately he seemed to realise this and turned them slightly, sitting heavily down on the bed, pulling her down with him, on him, so that she ended up straddling his lap, skirt hitched up around her waist.

“You’re like silk,” he said, running a hand up her thigh. “So soft, and so sweet.”

His fingers found her wet centre again. This time he teased her, his touches barely there, gentle caressing passes against her folds, unlike the way he’d touched her earlier. She felt like bursting into flames, _would_ burst into flames, and he didn’t seem to care one whit, taking his sweet, unhurried time. Rose moaned in frustration.

“More?” he asked, nipping at her ear.

“Oh god, _yes_.”

He gently set her apart from him, standing to remove the remainder of his clothes. She was sad to see them go, the fabric of his trousers had felt deliciously rough against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. But not too sad, she thought dazedly, watching as he shoved down his pants and kicked them off. He was hard, fully erect, his cock bobbing as he kneeled on the foot of the bed, eyes glued to her body. She soon lost her skirt and knickers to the floor as well.

“I didn’t deliver on dinner, not properly,” he mumbled into her thigh, kissing the soft skin there, “But I am going to deliver on the orgasms. Many, many, _many_ of them.”

Rose managed to stay propped up on her elbow, blouse falling off her shoulders. One hand tangled into his hair as he worked his tongue busily between her legs. He licked deep, eagerly, using just his mouth to drive her crazy. His tie pooled in the quaking muscles of her stomach and she focused on the tip of it, trying not to buck too hard against his mouth and failing spectacularly. His tongue did something immensely clever, launching her into her second orgasm of the day.

Rose let go of his hair, falling back onto the bed, and stuffed her knuckles into her mouth, muffling a scream. He licked her through the waves of pleasure, nipping and kissing. Her hips instinctively tried to clamp shut, and she bucked again, but he held her down with a hand on her stomach and another on her knee, keeping her open wide as she made inarticulate, keening noises.

The D.I. resurfaced, wiping his mouth on her thigh and rearing up over her in one smooth, oddly graceful movement. He instantly leapt to his feet, crossing the room to the dresser. A second later Rose heard the sound of foil crinkling. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she sat up, divesting herself of her blouse and bra. Just the tie remained. She met his gaze as he rolled on the condom, palming himself, stroking once, twice, as he came back to her, settling over her again, one hand brushing her tangled hair off her face.

The world narrowed to the way his body felt pressed to hers, the warmth of his skin, the tangle of their legs as he kissed her. The underside of his cock rubbed against her clit. In her sensitized state, she couldn’t help the little hiss that escaped from between her teeth.

He looked down at her, eyes dark and greedy, at odds with what he mumbled against her mouth- “Do you need more time?”

She shook her head. She needed _more_ , and let him know by rubbing herself against him. The angle wasn’t quite right, and she pouted. He shifted, taking himself in hand briefly to adjust himself accordingly, and- “Like that?”

_Fuck._ More passes of the tip of him, between her wet folds, teasing her in between long, pulling kisses. Rose bit her lip, arching up to meet him. Then he was inside her, hard and hot and sliding slickly. He went slow, giving her time to adjust, knuckles white on the bed on either side of her, muscles taut from holding back.

“S'okay,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around his hips, ready for him to move. It was all the permission he needed. He began to move, slowly at first, gradually picking up speed, rocking into her with a determined, open-mouthed wonder.

He fumbled for the end of the tie and clenched his fist around it, thrusting again and again until he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside her that made Rose bite down on his shoulder. The D.I.  shuddered in response. She felt it travel down his spine beneath her fingertips, felt him groan and press his mouth to her temple, felt him rasp her name into the fragile skin there- “ _Rose._ Rose, I- can we-”

She didn’t know what he was asking, but she nodded, yes, yes to all of it. He pulled out suddenly, she whined at the loss, but he said placatingly, “Rose, just let me-” and turned her until she lay on her front. He dragged her hips up to slide a pillow under them, lifting her bottom into the air. _Oh._ Rose pressed her face into the mattress, her arousal outweighing her embarrassment over the position. She felt his hands on her bum, palms on each cheek as he nudged her legs apart with his knees. He lowered himself and she felt his blunt tip at her entrance again, pushing in thickly.

Rose whimpered with every thrust. The D.I. pressed himself over her, his chest rubbing against her back. His hands clamped over her own, fingers intwined, keeping her firmly pinned to the bed with his lips against her ear. He kept up a litany of praise and encouragement punctuated with groans as he fucked her, telling her over and over that she was beautiful and felt amazing, so hot and tight and _just bloody perfect…_ Rose gasped, tension coiling in every cell of her body, his words pushing her over the edge again. She came, fluttering around him, with a keening cry, and he groaned in turn, her release fuelling his own. His hips pumped faster, harder, driving her up the bed, until at last he came, her name spilling from his lips. They lay panting, with him collapsed atop her for several minutes until he became aware of his crushing weight and rolled off her.

“That was…” she tried to speak, but it was difficult when her body felt like molten lava and her brain was mush, swimming with post-coital bliss. She looked at him, dazed. He laughed, a rough, breathless sort of rasp, and pulled her to his side, curling around her possessively.

“You’re not satisfied yet, I hope,” he said, cupping her bum with one hand. “I promised you lots of orgasms to make up for dinner.”

“Mm. What was wrong with it?”

“I didn’t cook it, remember?”

“But we had chips!”

He raised an eyebrow.

She said, blithely, “They were the best part!”

At this he growled into her neck, delivering a punishing squeeze to her bottom that felt more like a promise, or perhaps a request. “Cheeky.”

He loosened the knot of the tie around her neck and lifted it away, dropping it onto the floor next to the bed. They were both fully naked now, perfectly naked. It felt lovely, and was even nicer when he pulled a sheet over them both, cuddling her to his chest.

“Sorry,” he said, after a moment, his lips playing in her hair.

“What for?”

“I was supposed to take you on a real date. A proper one. Not just…takeaway and sex.” He huffed a breath against her temple. “I’m not just trying to get a leg over.”

Rose lifted her head to look at him. He met her gaze, and she saw that he was honestly worried that she might think he only wanted to get into her knickers.

“I know,” she said, patting his stomach. “We’ll do better next time.”

He relaxed, slightly.

_Chips and sex, gonna be tough to beat,_ Rose thought dreamily, before issuing a great big yawn that made the D.I. chuckle. She closed her eyes and nestled contentedly against him, finding the optimal head rest on his shoulder. She was asleep in seconds.

 

* * *

 

“In the dresser,” the D.I. said, poking his head out of the bathroom doorway. “Help yourself to a t-shirt.” He scratched his chest and vanished, and Rose heard the sound of an electric toothbrush whirring as she ducked back into his bedroom.

She tried not to blush at the intimacy of the act, this opening and closing of his drawers, the tentative search through his folded clothing, and settled on a dark grey t-shirt that was soft from washing. Rose deliberated, wondering if she should ask for a pair of boxers, too, but decided against it. She picked her knickers up off the floor where they’d been discarded, but as she bent to retrieve them, her eyes fell on the open door of his closet.

The D.I. came back into the room, saw what Rose was looking at, and sat down on the bed, tugging at his ear.

“You never returned any of this stuff?” she asked, somewhat amazed.

On the floor in the mostly empty space, save for a few coat-hangers and a puffy down jacket, was a pile of familiar things. A silver photo frame, a jewelry box, silicone bake ware, and several hefty candles. He’d bought those things for her when they’d first met. She’d refused to accept them and had long since imagined them returned.

“Well,” he said, meeting her gaze with a hint of defiance, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks, “I figured you’d come around. On accepting them. Once… we got here.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Here?”

He tugged on the hem of the t-shirt she’d pulled over her head, pulling her in between his legs, and settled his big palms on her hips. “Here. Now.”

“Oh.” Rose smiled - it felt a bit daft, but that was okay. “Right. _Here._ You thought we’d get here, did you?”

“Eventually,” he said, tilting his head to better enjoy the sensations of her fingers in his hair, caressing his scalp. “I hoped. Quite hard, really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt!POV for the first chapter, told from the D.I's POV.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Gibson said, his voice crackling over the phone. “We haven’t got enough evidence to nail the bastard, and you know it.”

“Obviously,” the D.I. snapped back, his ire growing as he fumbled for his keys. He dropped them while trying to balance reams of paperwork, mobile, and a mediocre curry takeaway that had already gone cold and swore before hanging up.

Paper scattered across the dim hallway as he tried to pick up the keys, and it was with much frustration that he managed to get the bloody key into the bloody lock.

It wouldn’t open. He swore again, trying furiously to make the stupid thing work, and wondered if he’d be able to kick the door in without waking the neighbours. It was way too late to call for a locksmith or the Super.

Exhausted from his 16 hour work day, he slumped against the smooth plane of the door, and immediately winced as the gilded number plate jabbed his forehead. Lifting his head, the D.I. looked at the cursive writing on the worn out plaque, and felt his cheeks grow hot.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, and quickly shuffled down to unit 410. 

—–

He was out of loo roll, and Amazon was being a complete dick about delivery.

“I know what the bloody tracking number says,” he managed between gritted teeth, “And I’m telling you, nothing has been delivered. In weeks.”

As soon as he hung up, his mobile rang again. He stormed out of his flat, yelling into his mobile that _nothing at the crime scene should be touched until he got there, you got that Anderson?_ He was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice the piece of paper taped to his door until a good 24 hours later, when he returned, eyes bleary and ears still ringing from the constant wailing of sirens.

——-

When the piece of paper fluttered out of his jacket pocket as he slung it over his hair, he remembered it was already Sunday, and he’d been meaning to see to things since Friday. With a sigh, he bent to retrieve it and resolved to deal with it tonight.

“I have to go home at a reasonable hour today,” said the D.I., much to the shock of his colleagues.

“Why?” his partner demanded.

“It’s not your birthday!” someone else shouted, from the back of the room.

He rolled his eyes. “No, it isn’t my birthday. I’ve got something to handle.”

Anderson lifted one eyebrow in a way that was incredibly annoying. The D.I. loosened his tie, and gathered the papers on his desk into a sort of pile shape.

“I’ll be back in the morning.”

“It’s already morning,” Anderson pointed out. “And we have a murder case to solve. And your coffee’s gone cold.”

He sighed again, and sat back down.

—–

Tuesday was absolutely horrendous, even by his own standards. Crime seemed to be at an all time high in London. They’d no sooner closed one case only for another to be thrown into their laps, and the D.I. foresaw a month of long shifts and grueling footwork. He wasn’t looking forward to this one at all - one glimpse at the file and straight away it was obvious he’d been assigned to baby-sit some swindling, money-laundering, mafia attorney’s trophy wife. At least she was easy to look at.

Still. Not his type, and not worth the trouble, frankly.

The ones worth the trouble were few and far in between these days, truth be told, and if they even existed, they surely wouldn’t want a poorly-rested, underpaid, overworked Detective badly in need of a shave.

It was well after 10PM by the time he got back to his building. There was no sign of anyone inside the flat next to his, so he sat down by the door to wait because his feet were killing him and embarrassingly fell asleep for a little bit.  

—–

He did feel a bit bad about scaring her, but he didn’t take threats lightly, and this one was literally six feet from home.

A pretty, frightened face stared back at him, eyes wide. She was almost shaking by the time he reached into his pocket to pull out his badge. Relief filled her face, which was immediately followed by some impressive blushing. It was kind of funny, in a strange sort of way. He’d have laughed if it hadn’t been so ridiculous.

He’d run a background check on her and knew that she was twenty-one years old, and lived alone, so he could understand her anxiety. But his curiosity was piqued, and he wanted to see for himself if she really did have all his packages.

That was, of course, the first nail in the coffin. Demanding to go inside. Following behind her, watching the top of her blonde head, surveying the contents of the small flat that had once been his but had never quite been so homey during his stay.

The second nail was letting his eyes stray to the pot on the stove, and waiting just a fraction of a second longer to let her have the opportunity to offer him a plate.

_Rose Tyler._ The name repeated itself in his head that night, over and over, until he fell asleep, his belly full and his bathroom freshly restocked with plenty of loo roll.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the previous ficlet, set post-ending. Rose helps the D.I. get over a bad day.

Rose had just come out of the shower when the front door to the flat opened. She pulled on a bathrobe as her heart flipped in her chest, and then just as quickly sank.

The sound of his voice soon filled the flat. He was shouting into his mobile, the curt sentences littered with cursing and the name _Anderson_ gritted out with exasperation every few words. His tone definitely wasn’t encouraging.

Her hopes for the evening took a nosedive as she poked her head around the bedroom door, listening as he stomped down the hall. She worked up the courage to make her appearance, waiting until he ended his call to tiptoe into the kitchen. The D.I. looked up as she came in. He appeared unkempt as usual, and she knew from the tense expression and rigid shoulders that he was in the middle of some atrocious case again.

His expression changed as he took in the sight of her bathrobe and bare feet. She felt instantly self-conscious and wondered if he was annoyed to find her in his flat uninvited. It was two days after Christmas, and she hadn’t seen him for nearly three weeks. She’d missed him sorely during the celebrations at her Mum’s place, and had longed to see him again. What if he didn’t feel the same way, though? What if he hadn’t called because he wanted to work alone in peace, and she was interrupting?

“Hi,” she said, hesitantly.

He regarded her silently, eyes narrowed and with no hint whatsoever towards how he felt. The remaining hope sank in her stomach.

Then he smiled, and shortly after that she was breathless for other reasons.

—-

He was teasing her again. Rose arched against him, trying to get some friction going where she wanted him badly, but he pulled back out of reach and lowered his head to her breast. Well, that was alright, she thought, but not enough.

Seeming to read her mind, he brought his hand down to slide two fingers between her legs. Her body hummed with warmth and desire as he stroked her gently, his attention wholly focused on her pleasure. Soon he shifted, moving so that he lay beneath her, and lifted her up until she hovered over his face. Rose blushed so hard she thought there might be no blood left in her trembling legs. His fingers clutched her hips and then he licked, slowly, straight across her wet slit. She shivered, holding back a gasp. The D.I. began to lick and nip at her with determination, until she was writhing and moaning above him, hands clutching the headboard, his name on her throat as she came with a cry of pleasure.

She was still recovering, heart racing and body languid with sparks from her orgasm, as he lifted her off his face to fall against his body. Rose kissed him, tasted herself, and shivered again. He was so good at this, and made her feel so good, and she wanted to make him feel good, too-

Rose lowered herself, took his erection in hand - he swallowed at her touch, his eyelids half closed in heavy anticipation. She’d never taken the initiative before, she realised. He’d always been the one to seduce her, to coax her body with his tongue and fingers. It was heady being on top, to be positioning him and sinking down slowly until he was completely inside her. She lifted herself, just as slowly, and sank down again, her own eyes fluttering shut at the delicious feeling of being filled. She paused, savouring it, and then squeezed and tightened every muscle she had around him, wringing a glorious sound from his chest.

Then, suddenly, she found herself being rolled over onto her back, hands seizing her wrists and pushing them up against the pillows above her head. The D.I. kissed her, hard, and growled, “Don’t move,” before grabbing her legs, pressing them open, and thrusting into her.

She was perhaps a little _too_ loud in response and his hand came up to cover her mouth, a smirk on his lips. He didn’t miss a beat, however, maintaining the rhythm he’d started between her legs, thrusting in and out, losing himself in the sensation. The smug expression melted away, as did his sharpness and stress, until all that was left was pure satisfaction and relief as he came inside her and collapsed bonelessly.

Letting him recover quietly, Rose stroked his neck in that way he liked best, dragging the tips of her fingernails along the hairline at his nape. He revived a little, pressing his lips to her shoulder, and mumbled, “Hello. Didn’t say that, did I?”

She suppressed a giggle, and replied, “Hello. S’alright. You seemed, um, a bit stressed.”

“Understatement. I _was_ having a rubbish day-,” he said in between kisses to her collarbone and jaw, “-but now it seems to have turned around.”

“Good,” said Rose. After a pause, she added, “I missed you.”

He gave her the most heartbreaking smile she’d ever received. “I missed you, too. Happy belated Christmas.”


End file.
